


the tin can man

by Marcellebelle



Series: the tin can man [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead is So Done, Aizawa has so many Problem Children, Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Dissociation, Ed is one of them, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Married Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Misdirection, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Parental Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Parental Roy Mustang, Parental Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Protective Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Protective Roy Mustang, Quirk Discrimination (My Hero Academia), Terminal Illness, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26428537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcellebelle/pseuds/Marcellebelle
Summary: Ed is three when his quirk manifests.He's six when his world falls apart.
Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Roy Mustang, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Edward Elric & Aizawa Shouta, Edward Elric & Father, Edward Elric & Midoriya Izuku, Edward Elric & Monoma Neito, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric & Van Hohenheim, Edward Elric & Yamada Hizashi, Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang, Roy Mustang & Scar, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic & Roy Mustang
Series: the tin can man [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116593
Comments: 325
Kudos: 641
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions





	1. goodbye, All Might

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is my first work for My Hero Academia, I thought I'd transition into the fandom with a crossover.
> 
> Edward Elric... with a quirk... what could possibly go wrong?
> 
> Edit: As a warning, this work is going to be dealing with a lot of sensitive issues, and by sensitive I mean this fic is going to get DARK. Please mind the tags, I originally was going to tag each chapter, but that ended up with a lot of spoilers, given how often many of the tags will feature in this fic. However, if a chapter contains something I think does need an extra warning, I'll try and put it in the chapter notes.
> 
> Edit 2: If there's a warning that you think I should put in the tags, I'd love to know. I'm aware that I might not be educated on every issue and I really don't want to cause problems for anyone by not tagging correctly if my writing includes triggers I don't realise are triggers.
> 
> With that, I just want to say thank you for giving this story a go :-) <3

Ed is three when his quirk manifests.

It’s mid-afternoon and Daddy isn’t home from work yet. The sun is still high in the sky and it's a warm day, so Mummy spreads a large picnic blanket out on the lawn and gives Ed his favourite plushie to play with. The smiling face of All Might is squished, clutched between small, sticky fingers.

Mummy falls asleep in the lawn chair with baby Al. She’s always napping, but Ed isn’t allowed to poke her awake. The last time he tried, Daddy ended up putting Ed on the naughty-step for three whole minutes and Ed cried.

Daddy had hugged him afterwards. “Mummy needs her rest,” he'd told Ed, his glasses sliding off the end of his nose.

She looks pretty because she has a green shawl wrapped around her head and it's the same colour as her eyes. He likes her eyes, even though they don’t match his. His eyes match Daddy’s and his hair does too. Daddy’s hair is yellow, like the sun.

Mummy used to have hair the colour of red clay-mud. She cries sometimes, because she misses it, but Ed secretly thinks green is much prettier. Green is like the grass and the leaves on the trees. The green grass is soft and tickly, and the trees are fun to climb in. 

Mummy is sleeping, but Ed wants to play. He’s bored of the plushie, and he’s not allowed to go anywhere on his own yet. He toddles over to the white picket fence and peeks through one of the gaps. Winry isn’t there but Mrs Rockbell is weeding her flower beds and catches him staring. 

Mrs Rockbell is older than Mummy and Daddy. Ed knows this because she has lines and only old people have lines. He used to think being bald was just for old people too, but now he knows that isn’t true. Mummy is bald, but she isn’t old because she doesn’t have lines on her face. Mrs Rockbell’s lines crinkle even more when she’s smiling, so Ed thinks it's probably a good thing that she doesn’t smile very much.

Mrs Rockbell comes over to the fence and peers down at him. “Hello, young man,” she says, crossly. She always sounds a bit cross, but she has taffy in her apron pockets, so Ed likes her. 

Ed holds out a hand. “Can I have a taffy?” he asks.

Mrs Rockbell exhales grumpily and raises a grey eyebrow. “What’s the magic word?”

Ed thinks for a moment and then smiles triumphantly. “Can I _please_ have a taffy?” he widens his eyes, looking up at her. “Please?”

“You _may,”_ she stresses the word and roots around in her apron, pulling out a paper wrapped piece of pastel-blue taffy. “Mind you don’t choke,” she warns as she reaches down to hand it to him. 

The taffy tastes like bubblegum, and Ed squeaks in delight as he munches on it. 

Mrs Rockbell glances over his head with a frown on her face, but she waits until Ed has finished his sweet before she speaks. “Is your mummy asleep again, Edward?”

Ed bobs his head emphatically and turns to look at Mummy. Her chest rises and falls softly, and her mouth is open. She must be very sleepy. “She’s always sleeping,” he looks back at Mrs Rockbell. “Baby Al is sleeping too. I’m bored; can Winry come and play with me?”

Mrs Rockbell shakes her head. “Winry isn’t here today. You make sure to play quietly for your mummy, you hear me?” She looks down at him sternly. “Don’t you start behaving like a little rascal now. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

Ed deflates, the prospect of a playmate now a distant dream. Mrs Rockbell keeps an eye on him a lot. He isn’t sure what it means, but she stays out in her garden when she says that, and scolds him when he’s too loud or tries to climb the fence. He might get a taffy again if he’s good, but now he has to be _quiet._

“Okay,” he says glumly. 

Mrs Rockbell reaches over the fence and pats his head. “Run along then,” she bustles away and Ed watches through the gap as she gets to her knees, pulling weeds with vigour.

He tries to play quietly, but there’s nothing really to _do,_ and he ends up lying on the picnic blanket, hitting All Might with a stick he digs up from beneath the weeping willow. All Might doesn’t look upset at this sudden mistreatment, his grin still wide and aimless. Ed feels immediately guilty, and hugs him tight, because he knows that sometimes people smile even when they’re sad. Like Daddy.

Daddy is sad all the time, but he smiles at Ed anyway and lets him play with his glasses. Daddy’s glasses make everything all blurry and Ed thinks he must really like it because he’s always wearing them, even when he kisses Mummy.

Ed likes kisses, especially Mummy’s kisses, because they’re soft. Daddy gives him kisses too, but those ones are prickly and tickle his tummy. Ed doesn’t _not_ like them, but he likes Mummy’s more. 

He misses Mummy. He’s not sure it makes sense because she’s _right there,_ but she’s also sleeping, and that means _no_ cuddles and _no_ kisses.

When he looks back at her, his chest feels tight and _weird,_ and he wants to scream but he’s _not allowed_ , and, _and--_

All Might is still grinning.

Ed _hates_ him.

All Might turns to dust in his hands.

* * *

Ed is five when Mummy falls.

She’s folding laundry, and Ed is helping. Al thinks he’s helping, but he really isn’t, and Ed has to scold him because Mummy is tired and she likes to keep her energy for housework and hugs.

Al is whining because he’s bored. Ed takes a pair of socks and holds the seams together, _pulling_ and _pressing_ the woven fabric. Al watches in rapture, his little face gleeful as he beholds the sock puppets his brother hands him. 

“I’m gonna have a quirk like yours,” Al says.

Then there is a strange clatter behind them and they turn to look. Mummy is moaning and swaying, clutching her head as her legs tremble. “Call Daddy,” she chokes, and her green eyes meet Ed’s own. “Eddie-- _Edward,_ call--” she stops and falls to her knees and her eyelids flicker once, twice, before she is folding in half, her head cracking against the tiled floor.

Ed feels frozen, his legs stiff and uncooperative. His heart beats off kilter, fluttering erratically against his rib cage. He opens his mouth, but he can’t draw enough breath to make a sound.

“Mama!” Al, tiny, not yet four years old, trips forward, patting Mummy’s pale face with his chubby baby palms. His green-gold eyes are wide with fright, but he isn’t crying

Then again, neither is Ed.

“Mama, wake up!” Al tugs on her fingers. _“Mama.”_

It’s Al’s despondent whisper that rouses Ed, and he clambers towards Mummy, climbing onto her stomach and pressing an ear to her chest. For a moment he can’t hear anything, but then there is the steady thumping against his cheek. 

He remembers the books Daddy reads to him, when it's late enough that the sun has set, and Mummy and Al have gone to bed: biology, chemistry, human anatomy. He knows he has to check Mummy’s breathing. He knows he has to find her heartbeat. 

Al doesn’t like those books. Al likes dragons and fairies and princesses. Al likes the princes too, the ones that dash in on steads, rescuing those in need-- the _heroes._

Al likes stories. Ed prefers science.

Mummy is breathing. Ed can feel the soft puffs of air against his palm as he holds his hand over her nose and mouth-- but she won’t wake up, no matter how Al wails and clings.

_Call Daddy._

But he doesn't know how. He hasn't been taught that yet. Mummy and Daddy's mobiles are for emergencies only. There's only one number he knows.

He finds her phone in her trouser pocket and taps the green icon. 

_One, one, nine,_ Ed presses the digits carefully. He holds it to his ear, because that's what Mummy does when she’s calling someone. The glass is cold against his cheek and his fingers aren’t long enough to wrap around the back, and he can’t help it when the phone starts to slip.

“One, one, nine, what’s your emergency?” The voice in his ear is tinny, and he has to strain to pick out the words.

“Mummy fell,” Ed whispers. “She won’t wake up,” he starts to cry then, and he can’t completely hear what the voice says next. “Please help,” he sobs, because he’s _scared._ “Please, _please.”_

* * *

Ed is six when Mummy stops coming home.

It’s gradual at first. Sometimes she doesn’t come back for weeks, but then she’s there again, smiling with crinkles at the corners of her green eyes, a matching scarf tied around her head.

She’s home when they go to the doctor for their check-ups, and she holds Al as he bawls.

Daddy is there too, frowning. Ed clutches at his trouser leg, pressing his face into the back of his knee. 

Al is nearly five, but he doesn't have a quirk yet. 

Daddy used to laugh and say that he must just be a late bloomer, but Ed doesn’t think he’ll say it anymore, because the doctor says Al is _quirkless._

“I want to b-be a h-h-hero,” Al hiccups into Mummy’s blouse. She soothes him, running skeletal hands over his blond tresses, clutching him to her rib cage. “It’s n-not _fair.”_

Ed doesn’t think it's fair either. Al wants to be a hero, wants to _save_ people. Ed wants to be a doctor. He doesn’t need a quirk, not like Al does.

“You can have mine,” he clambers through Daddy’s legs, reaching for Al. “I don’t want my quirk, Al, you can have mine--”

He is lifted before he can finish and held against a warm chest.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Daddy murmurs, when Ed looks up. “Quirks can’t be transferred, Edward. You can’t give yours to Al.”

He sounds like he’s crying.

Ed feels like crying too, and he buries his face in Daddy’s neck, squeezing his eyes shut when Al’s wails grow louder.

When they get home, Mummy holds Ed and Al close. "Remember boys," she says, softly. "It isn't the quirk that makes the hero, it's the heart," she presses her lips to the crown of Al's head. "I know you both have very special hearts."

They have to take Mummy back to the hospital that very night, because she starts to bleed and doesn’t stop. Daddy is shaking, but he hugs Ed and Al anyway and tells them that everything will be okay. 

It's not the first time Daddy has said that, but it's the first time Ed doesn’t believe him.

Mummy doesn’t come back home again. They visit her in a white room, wearing white robes and white masks, holding her hands through latex gloves. She smiles and calls them her boys. Ed’s throat gets tight sometimes, when he lays his head on her bony chest, but he shows her his schoolwork diligently and she asks the nurses if they would tape his sums to the white walls. They see her every day, but they can’t _all day,_ and she always looks a little sad at home time.

Ed wonders if the white room is lonely.  
  


* * *

On the day of his first funeral, Ed is six and a half.

Daddy is crying and Al is crying.

Mummy is in a box because the doctors couldn’t save her. _I’m sorry, but we couldn’t save her._

“Could I have saved you?” Ed whispers, when it is his turn to throw a flower into the grave. “If I'd tried?”

She doesn’t answer, but Ed doesn’t expect her to because she is _dead._

Dying means leaving forever. 

He wishes he could have saved her.


	2. bubblegum taffy

Things change.

Mrs Rockbell becomes Mrs Pinako.

Then she becomes Granny.

They move, because the house is too big for such a small family. By the time they’ve packed everything up the garden is overgrown and Ed has to fight his way through the thicket to climb the mahogany cherry tree and hide within the willow’s drapery. 

The apartment is only about half a mile away, but it's in an area of the city Ed has never been to before. The paint is peeling from the walls and Ed finds mould in the corner of Al’s bedroom and demands they switch. He’s read about the effects mould can have on the respiratory system, and Al is littler than he is. It only makes sense.

Daddy stops working. At first he’s paid for it, but then he isn’t and by the time Ed turns eight they’ve run out of money. The power goes out and it doesn’t come back. It's winter and the days are dark and frigid and Al develops a cough that won’t go away no matter how many spoonfuls of syrup Ed gives him. They sleep together in Al’s room, tucked beneath both their quilts because it's the only way they can retain any heat. In the mornings their breath condensates in the chilly air and they pretend to be dragons. Al says that Ed has to be a fire dragon because _he_ wants to be a water dragon and they can’t both be the same kind of dragon. 

Ed isn’t sure how much sense that makes, but he does think it would be nice to breathe fire, to breathe _warmth._ If only so Al would stop pressing his icy toes against Ed’s ankles.

Daddy cries and sleeps and drinks funny coloured medicine that comes in large glass bottles. He drinks a _lot_ of it. It's scary sometimes, because he’s sleeping and taking medicine, and it reminds Ed of Mummy and hospitals and sickness.

He wonders if Daddy needs a doctor. He knows they can’t afford it, because they can’t take Al to one even though his cough is getting worse. Daddy checks Al for a fever every day, the way he used to check Mummy, and Ed quickly learns how, for the Bad Days, when Daddy is crying so much he can’t eat or sleep or stand, and Al’s breathing is laboured, the short walk from his bed to the kitchen leaving him flushed and heaving.

They run out of cough syrup, and there’s no money for more. Ed tries to give Al some of Daddy’s medicine and it's-- _not right._ Al chokes from the taste and goes all floppy and weird, and the sight makes Ed’s heart stutter. He doesn’t give Al any more medicine.

The next day, Ed wakes up warmer than usual, though seasonal frost still coats the window pane. He curls towards Al and finds a furnace. Pressing against him hurts and Ed tumbles out of bed from the shock, before scrambling on top of the duvet, touching his frozen fingertips to the rosy flush on his brother’s cheeks. Al’s usually straight locks are curling, damp against his clammy forehead. His breaths are shallow, rattling audibly as he gasps and-- _and his lips are turning blue._

Ed knows the symptoms of pneumonia by heart. He’s spent hours researching using Daddy’s old laptop, reading page after page of medical texts, scanning articles on home remedies for chronic coughs and chest infections. He knows how sick Al is. 

He’s pushing open the door to Daddy’s bedroom before he realises he’s even moved. The air is stale. There are empty bottles covering over the floor again, and Ed has to kick them aside before he can reach the bed. 

Daddy is sleeping. He smells like his medicine; sour and sweaty, but Ed grabs his arm anyway and shakes.

“Wake up!” He sees Mummy on the tiled floor. “Daddy, wake up!”

Ed’s not strong enough to rouse him, not from a sleep this deep, but he has to-- he _has to,_ because _Al--_

He grasps the frame of the bed. It’s varnished oak, and smooth beneath his palms. He _pulls._

The bed frame shatters and Daddy lurches to his feet.

* * *

Daddy braces Al against his chest. Ed feeds his brother half of a crushed paracetamol tablet, because Al is too little for a whole one, and too sick to swallow pills.

Then Daddy makes _Ed_ hold Al. They’re a year and a half apart and almost the same size, and it's difficult to support his weight, but Ed manages by leaning Al against the wall and sitting on his other side so he doesn’t fall. It seems like being upright is helping though, despite the way Al’s head lolls against his shoulder. His breathing isn’t quite so shallow, and his lips aren’t as blue, and his eyelids flutter as though he’s fighting unconsciousness in a way that eases the tightness in Ed’s own chest, because Al _is_ a fighter.

Daddy leaves to make a call, and when he comes back there’s relief in his red-rimmed eyes. He sits on the bed and pulls Al into his lap, and tucks Ed beneath his arm. He still smells sickly, but Ed hides his face in his shirt and clings to his warmth as they wait.

The sound of the doorbell has Daddy standing, still cradling Al. Ed stays where he is, listening to the murmuring voices as they make their way down the corridor. Daddy carries Al back to the bed, settling against the headboard as two more people walk in. The first is a tall blond man that Ed vaguely recognises, but can’t remember where from, and the second--

The second is _Granny._

Ed immediately launches himself into her arms. She lets out a surprised huff but doesn’t push him away, gently petting his hair as he buries his face in her stomach. He’s reminded of taffy, and of scoldings and quiet playtime, and he _wishes._

“You remember Doctor Rockbell, don’t you Ed?” Daddy’s voice sounds far away. “Winry’s father?”

He _does._ He hasn’t seen Winry for years though. She wasn’t allowed to come over to play towards-- towards the _end,_ and then they moved. It’s been such a long time. 

It feels like he’s spent every second of it alone.

“Oh dear,” Granny says, and Ed realises that he’s sobbing into her blouse.

He is shepherded into the kitchen, away from Daddy and Al and the doctor, and he watches as Granny surveys the piles of dirty dishes and their empty fridge, and the bottles and cans lining the counters. There’s a tightness to her expression that he doesn’t remember being there before, and she looks, for a moment, like she is very, very sad. 

Ed doesn’t doubt that she is. He knows how to recognise sadness; he’s grown with it.

“How about we run a few errands together?” She suggests, and when she makes eye contact with him the tightness has dissipated. 

“Okay,” Ed's voice shakes and she takes his hand.

They drive to a supermarket and Granny pays for a shopping trolley. They pick up essentials first, and the cart is filled with rice, meat, vegetables. Ed hasn’t been to a store this big in months, because Daddy sold the car and there isn’t one within walking distance-- but they never have enough money for a full grocery shop anyway, so it's not like it matters. They buy toilet paper, laundry powder and washing up liquid. Granny spends a long time with the cleaning supplies, and they end up with more bottles of antibacterial spray than Ed would ever know what to do with. He usually only uses it to wipe down the kitchen surfaces when he’s making dinner.

They pass shelves filled with the same medicine Daddy drinks, and Ed asks if they could maybe get some more for him.

“He calls it medicine, does he?” Granny sounds upset and Ed worries that perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. It does look expensive. Maybe she can’t afford it. 

It isn’t medicine, she says. It’s a grown up drink. A _dangerous_ grown up drink. Ed mustn't taste it _._ He mustn’t ever give it to Al again, because it's _not medicine._ She’s trying not to look angry, but he can see that she is and he thinks he might have done something bad, but he’s not sure because he doesn’t _understand--_

_Why didn’t Daddy--?_

Granny buys Al’s cough syrup and some children’s cold and flu medicine.

_Daddy should’ve--_

His head hurts. 

The last aisle before the checkouts is full to the brim with confectionery. He’s prepared to walk straight past. Chocolates and cake are for kids who have money they can afford to waste. Ed has to feed his little brother. 

But Granny stops and tells him to choose anything he wants.

It's almost overwhelming, because there is too much choice, but Ed hardens himself against the sudden rush of anxiety. He isn’t one to turn down food, and he knows Al wouldn’t either. Some nights they struggle to sleep, their tummies aching with hunger. Al cries and clutches his empty stomach. Ed cradles him and tries to keep himself together.

One such night, when the outside world was blanketed in a thick layer of white, they scraped some snow from a neighbour’s fence into their mugs and pretended it was ice cream. It filled them up at first, but then the chills set in and Al got sicker.

Ed remembers holding his little brother through the tremors. 

He picks up a pack of iced biscuits and one of caramel chocolate, placing them reverently into the cart. 

Granny makes a noise in her throat, and he looks hesitantly at her.

“One more,” she says gently.

Ed swallows, and glances again at the shelves. He’s already chosen two of Al’s favourite treats and he can see another he knows his brother will like, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look around a bit. He makes his way along the aisle, and really, _everything_ looks good, so he might as well go back and pick out the--

A splash of blue amongst the sea of tin foil boxes and off-brand biscuit packets catches his eye, and he’s suddenly reaching for it, grasping the bag in his small hands.

_Bubblegum Taffy._

He turns to show Granny.

For a moment he thinks he can see tears in her eyes.

* * *

When they return the doctor is gone. Daddy is alone in the kitchen surrounded by pamphlets and clutching a form with shaking fingers.

The apartment hasn’t quite lost its chill, but the radiators feel hot when he touches them and there’s a whirring coming from the boiler that he hasn’t heard in months. Ed sinks into the cracked leather sofa crammed behind the table, burying his face in the musty upholstery. He’s forgotten how nice it feels, to be warm.

Granny calls him to put away the ingredients, and then sends him away to Al’s room while she and Daddy scrub at the surfaces with strong-smelling chemicals that make Ed’s nose tingle. Al is asleep, but his cherubic face is relaxed and he’s no longer struggling for breath. He looks better, despite the fever-bright spots adorning his cheeks.

Doctor Rockbell has a healing quirk, he later learns. Al has been given a course of antibiotics, paid for by the doctor. He’s going to be okay.

Granny makes dinner, and Ed thinks it might just be the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten, though it's nothing more than rice and chicken. He’s been hungry for a long time. He tells her this and she smiles sadly, patting his head. She’s glad he likes it.

That night, he overhears Daddy and Granny in the kitchen; it's hours past his bedtime and Daddy is crying.

“You can’t keep living like this, Van,” Granny is saying. She sounds subdued, far removed from her usual bustling self. _“They_ can’t live like this. They’re _children.”_

“I know,” Daddy croaks.

“And you know who they'll end up with if you’re considered unfit,” she continues darkly. “I’m surprised he didn’t show up after--”

“I didn’t tell him,” Daddy interrupts. There’s an edge to his tone, and Ed doesn’t need to see him to know that the corners of his mouth are downturned. “He doesn’t know, Pinako, and he _won’t.”_

Granny huffs. “Can you honestly tell me you think the way they’re living now is any better?”

“Yes,” Daddy says immediately. “You don’t know him. If it were just Alphonse, then-- then _maybe,_ but with Edward's quirk? I just-- I _can’t--”_ he breaks off, and Ed can hear the fridge open and then close again, followed by a faint _pop-hiss_.

“When was the last time you were sober?” Granny mutters. It sounds like a question, but Daddy doesn’t respond and Granny doesn’t make him. “You’re going to those sessions, Van. You need to get yourself together. If you don’t, I’ll call him up myself. I will not let you ruin those boys.”

_“He’ll_ ruin them.” Daddy whispers brokenly. He sighs, defeated. “I’ll go, Pinako.”

“You better,” she says, and it sounds like an ending.

The power doesn’t go out again.


	3. you should be a hero

They see Granny often after that first visit. At least once a month, sometimes twice, when the fridge begins to look barren again. 

Warmth is now a constant and Al gets better quickly, the doctor’s quirk working in tandem with the antibiotics he’d prescribed. Ed no longer has to listen to his brother’s wheezing gasps at night.

He still sleeps in Al’s bed. Sometimes he’s afraid he’ll wake up and find his little brother blue-lipped, burning hot, chest heaving, but he never does. The fear doesn’t leave though. It remains cold, coiled in the pit of his stomach, twisting into nightmares and terrors. 

The bottles disappear, for the most part, and Daddy gets a part-time job at the corner shop. He only works during school hours and never on weekends, because he goes to a group therapy on Saturday mornings. Ed and Al go with him, though they aren't allowed to sit in on the actual meetings, and instead have to go to the Kids Club two doors down. The lady who runs the Kids Club is called Maria Ross. She insists that they call her Maria. She says they’re friends, so it only makes sense to call each other by their given names. Ed doesn’t know if he likes being friends with her; she asks a lot of questions and sometimes he doesn’t know how to answer them. Sometimes he doesn’t want to.

He goes anyway, because Al likes her. Maria is quirkless too, and she’s kind to Al. Not many people are kind to his brother. Ed doesn’t understand why the kids at school will talk to him but not Al-- Al is ten times better than Ed will ever be. 

Maria isn’t the only person who makes him talk. On Fridays, their social worker comes to their house and snoops around. Mrs Curtis has beady eyes and a mean expression, and she asks difficult questions that Ed answers in twisted truths and lies. He doesn’t know if she believes him, but he knows if he says too much Daddy might get taken away. Sometimes they split siblings up in foster care, and he can’t risk that because Al is quirkless, and if Ed isn’t there to protect him--

“What are you colouring, Edward?” Maria smiles from where she’s kneeling beside him. Her dark hair is clipped back and she’s wearing a yellow sundress that clashes vibrantly with her pink earrings. 

He looks down at the drawing. “A knight,” he answers honestly as he scribbles in dull grey. 

“Why did you choose that one?” She’s still smiling at him.

Ed jerks a thumb in Al’s direction. “Al likes ‘em.” 

Al, who up until now had been studiously colouring in another medieval themed workbook, glances up with bright eyes. “Yeah!” he exclaims excitedly. “Miss Maria, will you look at mine? Do you like it?”

“Oh I love it!” 

Al gives him a sly smirk and Ed grins back. They look after each other, him and Al. He makes sure Al has enough to eat and takes baths and goes to bed on time, and Al handles the social situations when Ed gets overwhelmed. It works well for both of them.

Ed doesn’t _hate_ the Kids Club anyway, because at least he doesn’t have to be in charge. He knows Maria will look after Al-- and maybe he _doesn’t_ hate being her friend either. She’s the kind of person who knows how to make the people around her happy, a bit like Al.

The world would be a better place if there were more people like Maria and Al.

* * *

Ed catches them just outside the school gates because he’d recognise those cries _anywhere._

_Alphonse._

“Get away from him!” he shouts, tears of anger smarting in his eyes as he throws himself between his little brother and the biggest bully. “Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?”

“What, like you?” The boy sniggers. He’s older than Ed by at least a few years, and he sneers, his sharp features contorting. “You’re even more of a runt than _he_ is.”

“Shut up!” Ed snarls, standing on his tiptoes so he’s at least level with Al. “Just _shut up.”_ His brother is a year and a half younger than him at nearly ten, and Ed’s only _just_ turned eleven, so there’s really not that much difference between them. He’s not _that_ short.

“Why don’t you make me?” The boy laughs. “I bet you can’t. I bet you’re just as worthless as that piece of shit behind you,” he leans in, smirking. “I bet _you’re_ quirkless too.”

Quirkless isn’t an insult. Ed, for once in his _goddamn short as all hell life,_ as Granny would say, keeps his mouth shut.

“Thought so,” the bully laughs and swings his hand back. His friends leer with stupid grins on their faces behind him. He brings his fist forward and Ed pushes Al to the floor, diving, slamming his palms to the sticky gravel.

The ground shudders, and as Ed _pulls,_ the bullies sink rapidly, stuck, up to their calves in asphalt and toppling like bobblehead trinkets.

Ed helps Al to his feet. “I do have a quirk,” he tells the purpling bobbleheads. “Don’t mess with my brother again.”

On the way home he describes, in depth, a medical textbook he’d managed to sequester from the local library during breaktime. Al looks appropriately bored, and Ed pretends not to notice the awe filled glances his brother gives him every time he turns back to the pavement.

Daddy is _furious_ , the lines on his forehead more prominent than ever. The school calls him that evening, and he turns on Ed quicker than a whip. “I’ve told you,” he’s shouting and Ed can hear panic behind the anger. “You mustn’t use your quirk in public, Edward. It’s not _safe--”_

“But _why?”_ Ed snaps. “They were hurting Al! They were going to hit me! I _know_ it’s legal in self defence. I’m not even in _trouble_ with the school, not after you _explained--”_

“It’s not about that,” Daddy lowers his voice, turning away as he massages his temples. “I’m sorry Ed, I-- I know it’s not fair, and when you’re old enough I promise I’ll explain, okay? But for now, just do as you’re told. Do not use your quirk outside this house.”

“Even if Al’s in danger?” Ed bites back.

“Even then.”

Bitter tears spring to his eyes and he turns away to hide them. 

“Edward,” he feels a hand on his shoulder. “Ed, kiddo, don’t be like that--”

_“Leave me alone!”_ Ed rips himself from his father’s grasp. “Stop _touching me._ You’re wrong. _You’re wrong!_ I don’t care why you think I shouldn’t-- Al’s more important. Al’s _always_ more important, you-- you’re a terrible dad! I hate you! _I hate you!”_

_“Edward--”_ Daddy’s voice is shaking.

“Leave us alone,” Ed sneers coldly, words spewing from his mouth like vomit. “We don’t _need you.”_

Daddy turns and walks out of the room, and the icy anger trickles away, leaving something worn and hollow behind.

_We don’t need him,_ Ed thinks viciously. _We don’t._

* * *

That night, after Daddy has drunk himself to sleep and it’s past even Ed’s bedtime, Al whispers to him: “You should be a _hero,_ Ed.”

But that’s Al’s dream, not his. Ed knows better than to take something like that from his brother, not when the odds are as stacked against him as they already are.

“I’m going to be a doctor,” Ed says, as he always does. _“You’re_ the one who’s going to be a hero, Al. I know you can do it.”

They’ve had this conversation before, but this time it’s different. Al doesn’t smile at him with a mixture of awe and pride, as though Ed has handed him the world on a platter through raw determination and belief.

Al turns away from him. “I _can’t_ Ed,” he whispers. “You know I can’t. Please don’t lie to me.”

“I’m _not_ lying,” Ed says, and he means it.

Al laughs bitterly, and-- and it’s _wrong,_ coming from his little brother, because Al _isn’t_ bitter. He’s gentle and loving and kind, and--

_And quirkless,_ the words come unbidden to Ed’s mind. _Wouldn’t you be bitter too, if around every corner you found the world to be against you?_

“Listen to me,” Ed feels a new sense of urgency, and his heart pounds as he turns the younger towards him, grasping his shoulder tightly. “Listen to _me,_ Al. Don’t listen to _them. They_ don’t know you, _I_ do. I _know_ you can become a hero. I know that you _will._ ”

“How?” there are tears in Al’s eyes, but also a cautious hope. “How, Ed? I don’t have a quirk-- I _can’t_ fight villains,” he scrubs at his eyes. _“I don’t know what to do.”_

Ed has thought about this before-- he’s done what he can to make Al’s dream come true, after all. He’s looked into latent quirks, researched the logistics of fighting without the advantage of a strong physical quirk, and there _are_ heroes out there who work in the shadows, with quirks not strong enough for a fair one-on-one fight. “Support weapons,” is what he says. “I’ve sketched some designs for you. We can try building them together. Most of the mechanics are simple, it will just be a case of getting the materials.”

“Oh,” Al breathes. “Oh, _Ed.”_

“And I’ve designed protective gear as well. I’ve based it off-- well, actually I’ll show you. Stay here.”

When Ed returns he’s carrying a picture book with several drawings tucked into the margin. He’s stuffed one of Daddy’s empty beer cans under his arm after a sudden flash of inspiration, and he lays his spoils on Al’s bed, opening the book and unfolding the research pages and diagrams. 

Al’s eyes are wide, an almost thirsty look in them as he drinks in the sight. “I-- this is _amazing, Ed--_ ” he breaks off, as though suddenly short of breath, before he’s flinging himself into Ed’s arms, nearly crumpling the papers beneath him as he sobs. “Thank you, _thank you.”_

Ed clings just as tightly, because Al-- Al shouldn’t have to sound so _grateful,_ just to be given the same chance as everyone else.

They pore over the pages, whispering to each other about tension and maneuverability, and Al is helpful, suggesting things Ed hadn’t thought of. Al has always preferred physics over bio-chemistry and it shows; the diagrams spilling over with annotations and scribbled side notes. 

An hour later, they have much more than just a theory and Al is beaming, his cherubic face lighting up as he stares at the pages filled with harsh pencil lines and blue ink and the rough sketch (for neither of them are artists) of his hero costume, shaded in soft greys and silver. “This is so cool,” he whispers, enamoured. “This is _so cool.”_

Ed grins, because it kind of _is._ “This is gonna be you, Al,” he says. He casts his gaze over the drawings in satisfaction, before a gleam of metal catches his eye. “Oh yeah,” he picks up the forgotten beer can, shaking it in his brother’s face. “Remember this?”

Al blinks, leaning back a little from the abrupt turn of conversation. “You-- brought that with you?” He frowns, confusion evident in his expression. “Why?”

“Just watch,” Ed furrows his brow, summons all of his willpower and _presses._ The can crumples, metal sheets folding together seamlessly. He starts with the general shape first-- arms, legs, the helmet, before moving onto intricacies. It’s hollow-- there wasn’t all that much base material to begin with, but the helmet is detailed and there are joints carved into the arms and legs: a suit of armour. It’s misshapen, certainly, for Ed really _isn’t_ an artist, but it’s form is unmistakable. 

The end result isn’t large; perhaps the width of his palm, but Al takes it reverently. “I don’t-- I don’t understand,” he whispers, in a tone that suggests that perhaps he actually _does. “Eddie-”_

“They didn’t have quirks,” Ed hands him the picture book. “The heroes of Camelot. Nobody did in those days.”

Al sniffles. “I wish I could look like that.”

“I know,” Ed squeezes his arm. “I know Al, and it sucks that you can’t right now, but-- but you will one day, you hear me? You _will._ I’ll make sure of it. Just-- just keep that, okay? Maybe it’ll help you remember. It's not the quirk that makes the hero, it's the _heart._ You know that.”

“I remember,” Al clutches the little figurine. “I think I know what I want my hero name to be.”

“Yeah?” Ed isn’t crying. He _isn’t._

“The Tin Can Man.”

Ed stifles a sob. _"Oh."_


	4. there's no smoke

Ed is eleven and almost-a-half on the day Al turns ten. It’s a quiet affair; just the two of them and Daddy, sitting at the kitchen counter eating store bought cake. Al is wearing a sweater that Ed made for him out of their old, too-small clothing. It was cheaper than buying one from a shop, and he _did_ use his quirk to make it, so it wasn’t exactly difficult, but Al had _beamed_ like the bright little sun he is after unwrapping it from the crumpled sports pages of that week’s Sunday Times, and proclaimed it was the best birthday present he’d ever had-- _right after_ he’d opened the new sci-fi novel Daddy had found for him from the local charity shop. Daddy hadn’t looked upset at all at the revelation, and Ed had caught him staring at the sweater with pride. 

Which doesn’t make sense, because it was Ed who made it, not Daddy.

Al doesn’t have friends over because he doesn’t have any. The kids at school still won’t talk to him. Ed does what he can, but Al is in the school year below him, and while he’s able to hang out with his little brother at playtime, Al is on his own in lessons. 

  
Next year, when Ed transfers to their local junior high, Al will be on his own during playtime too. 

It’s not something he likes to think about. He doesn’t know _what_ he’s going to do, for all that his teachers call him a genius, he honestly has no idea how to protect his brother.

But that isn’t today-- it’s not even tomorrow. They have time-- or rather, _Ed_ has time. He’ll think of something. He _has_ to. And if worst comes to worst, he can just flunk his exams so they hold him back a year. Anything is better than Al getting hurt, and if that’s the way it has to be then he’ll do it. It shouldn’t stop them from living their lives-- Al will still be able to have a normal life. 

Al’s the one who _matters._

“Can we get a cat, Daddy?” Al asks, curiously.

Daddy, who is sober and eating a second slice of birthday cake, chuckles. “You know, kiddo, a cat is going to be a lot of work. Are you sure you want one?”

Al, a newly ten year old boy, who likes cats and birthdays and heroes, matters more than the rest of the world, to Ed. 

“Uh huh,” Al stuffs another bite of fluffy icing and crumbs into his mouth. “I’m _sure._ Cats are my favourite.”

Cats _are_ a lot of work _and_ they’re expensive, even if they take in a stray, because of vet bills and cat food and all the other things cats need. Daddy has a part time job now, so they don’t exactly have _no_ money, but they sure don’t have much to spare. Ed grimaces, because he _knows_ Daddy can’t say no to Al, and they really can’t afford another mouth to feed. 

“Sure, kid,” Daddy says lightly. “I’ll pick up a few extra hours at the shop. We’ll get you a cat.”

“Really? When?” Al grins, eyes bright as he peppers Daddy with questions. “Can we call it Butter? Do you think we can get a kitten? Should we get a boy or a girl? And do you--”

Ed tunes them both out. He’s already started thinking about how he’s going to break the news to Al. There’s a reason Daddy’s not in full time work, and there’s a reason he doesn’t usually pick up extra hours at the shop. Daddy’s usually crying when he’s not working, or he’s drunk, or both. So they won’t be able to afford a cat. 

He thinks Al probably knows all this, but his little brother is and always has been an optimist. 

Daddy is the same. Daddy _is_ optimistic, for someone who’s so often sad, but it always shows itself at the _wrong_ time. Like now, because he somehow thinks he’s going to be able to pull himself together enough to buy Al a _cat_ of all things, and Ed is going to have to pick up the pieces.

“If we get a girl kitty,” Al stabs at Ed’s shoulder with his index finger until he’s _listening._ “She can have babies and we can sell them.”

“You’re gonna be a cat breeder?” Ed is sceptical. “I thought you wanted to be a hero.” 

“Heroes can breed cats,” Al replies confidently, with the air of a hero who does just that. “I can do both. Can I have another slice, Daddy?”

“Sure thing, kiddiekins,” Daddy heaps another sickening helping of jammy victoria-sponge onto Al’s plate. “Tell me again, what’s your hero name going to be?”

* * *

It’s supposed to be a good day. It’s Al’s birthday, and Al is turning ten, which is his first foray into double digits-- and from then on out he’s going to have to get through another ninety years until triple digits, so Ed reckons this is kind of a big deal. 

It _has_ been a good day. Al’s been happy, which is Ed’s measure for the good versus the bad days, doubly so since Al _deserves_ to be happy today, not that he ever _doesn’t_ of course, but Ed is sure even Daddy understands the importance of being _happy_ on birthdays.

But then Daddy disappears, maybe an hour after the cake, and Ed’s heart practically sinks through the floor, even as he lugs himself off the couch to go searching, because they’ve been here so many times and he knows what’s going on before he’s even set foot in his father’s bedroom. He enters anyway, because they’ve played this game before, only it isn’t so much a game as it is a worn-out, bone-wearying _farce_ of a routine.

Daddy is sitting crossed-legged on the floor, his shoulders against the bed frame. He’s clutching a half-empty bottle of clear liquid-- _Vodka,_ Ed feels confident enough to presume-- in one hand and his face in the other. He’s crying, and he reaches for Ed when he sees him.

Ed takes a step back. “It’s Al’s birthday.” 

Daddy’s face twists. “Eddie, your mother--”

_“Don’t_ _call me that.”_

“Edward--”

He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to _know_ why Daddy’s suddenly talking about _her_ again-- and in most of the ways that matter, he doesn’t actually _care._

“It’s Al’s _birthday!”_ Ed snaps, and suddenly he’s crying too. _“Al’s_ birthday! This has _nothing_ to do with Mummy! Why are you so _obsessed_ with her, Dad? She’s _dead._ She’s dead and she’s never coming back and you’re never, _ever_ going to see her again,” he wants to scream and hit his stupid dad in his stupid face but he _doesn’t,_ because he doesn’t _want_ to hurt him, he just wants -- he just _wants._

Daddy’s eyes are wide, and for a moment Ed thinks he isn’t going to speak, before-- “Get out.”

“I--” Ed stumbles back another step as Daddy rises to his feet.

“Get. Out.” Daddy’s fist is clenched. “I mean it, kid. _Beat it.”_

Ed will look back on this moment with regret, because maybe-- _maybe--_ he could’ve said something else; _done_ something else. Maybe Daddy wouldn’t then have ended up drinking the other half of that bottle, and maybe things would have been different if he hadn’t. _Maybe Al--_

But Tomorrow Ed is not Today Ed. Today Ed doesn’t know what he will or won’t regret. Today Ed is an eleven year old child trying desperately to be a parent to his ten year old younger brother. Today, Ed is _angry._

“What if I don’t?” Ed goads, adrenaline making him bold. “What’re you gonna do, Dad? Are you gonna _hit_ me?”

Daddy hasn’t hit him before. Daddy, as far as Ed knows, hasn’t ever hit _anyone._

But, in that moment, Ed finds himself flying back against the half-open door, cheek red and throbbing.

“You--” Ed stares. He _stares,_ because all of a sudden he doesn’t know the man in front of him. He doesn’t know _Daddy._ “You actually _did it_ _.”_

Daddy’s still sobbing. “I told you,” he slurs his words. “Get out, Edward.”

Ed gets out. 

* * *

They’re making dinner for two. Pasta and tomato sauce, bubbling on the stove, just as merry as it would have been on any other day-- which is why if Ed could hate pasta he would, because he’s spiteful like that. But that isn’t going to work out at all, because he’s _hungry,_ and he thinks he might be incapable of hating _anything_ edible at this point.

At least they don’t have to eat anything green today. Al’s using the healthy portion of tonight’s dinner as an ice pack against Ed’s face. Ed is mostly humouring him, as much as fidgeting, cross-armed and frowny faced, at the counter counts as humouring.

“Daddy punched you, didn’t he?” 

Ed scowls. He doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t _like_ lying to Al-- but all the same, some things are better left unsaid, and this, he thinks, is one of them. 

“I want to tell someone,” Al presses the frozen peas a little too forcefully against Ed’s cheekbone. Maybe on purpose. “We’re gonna tell someone, right?” Ed must take too long to answer, because Al gasps and shakes his shoulder. _“Ed,_ we _have_ to.”

“No,” Ed finally finds his voice, though even he can hear how much it’s shaking. “No, Al. It was my fault he did. I practically begged him to.”

Al frowns. He’s always quiet when he’s thinking, which is pretty much the opposite to how Ed works. Ed is loud and shouts his unfiltered thoughts and gets into trouble because of it. In all honesty, Al is probably this way _because_ he’s quirkless. It helps him to be unnoticeable-- which is _sad,_ but Ed won't begrudge him the only way he has to defend himself. 

But just because Al’s quiet, it doesn’t mean he’s not smart. Ed knows this better than anyone.

Which is probably why Al comes to the conclusion he does. “I don’t think it matters what you did,” is what he ends up saying. “I don’t think Daddy should have hit you. I think he was wrong to do that.”

Al’s right. Ed _knows_ Al’s right. He hasn’t spent most of his life advocating for his little brother not to know what abuse is. He knows Daddy doesn’t always treat them right-- that’s why _he’s_ the one looking after Al. 

The problem is, Daddy is sick. It’s not the stomach ache kind of sick, or the fever kind-- Daddy says it’s _inside_ his head. He tries to look after Ed and Al but he’s sick and so sometimes he can’t, and _that_ is why Ed has to make sure Al eats his peas and goes to bed on time. When Daddy drinks the way he does, he’s just trying to cope. It’s not his fault.

And even though they argue a lot, Ed loves Daddy, and he knows that Daddy loves him and Al too. 

“If we tell,” Ed counters as though he’s brandishing a sword made of putty. For all that he knows he’s right, he doesn’t want to hurt Al. “We might not be allowed to live here anymore.” He meets Al’s golden gaze. His little brother’s eyes are wide with uncertainty. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

Al swallows almost nervously, and Ed only comprehends why when he begins to speak. “Would that be so bad?” He stares at the floor, refusing to make eye contact even when Ed looks for it. “Maybe it would be better?”

“We might be split up,” Ed says plainly.

“I know,” Al’s voice shakes, a telltale sign that he’s about to cry. “But, Ed, I don’t want you to get hurt. If-- if Daddy is starting to _hurt_ you, I-- I think we have to _tell.”_

“You think you can protect yourself?” Ed suddenly finds himself standing, the peas falling to the floor as he grasps Al’s shoulders. “It’ll be like it is in school but _worse,_ Al. You’re quirkless, so they’re gonna try to _get_ you like they always do, and then you’re not gonna be able to defend yourself _because_ you’re quirkless.” It’s a vicious cycle, and Ed knows, _knows_ that Al won’t make it. He knows his brother, maybe better than he does himself, and he knows that if he allows the world to beat Al down like that, the younger boy _will_ break. 

Al’s expression belongs on a cracked mirror. Ed doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen him look like that before, and he has to swallow down the shock as he’s shoved away, as Al chokes on his tears. “You think I can just stand by and watch you get hurt?” His little brother is almost shouting, which is _wrong_ and _weird_ and-- “How can I become a hero if I do _that,_ Ed? Heroes don’t just _watch._ They _save_ people. If--” Al takes a juddering breath. “If I can’t become a hero because I’m quirkless, then--”

“You can,” Ed hurriedly interrupts. “Of course you can, Al. I’ve told you--”

_“You just said I couldn’t!”_

Ed is stunned silent. 

“You said I couldn’t!” Al sobs, and he’s _crying_ and it’s _Ed’s fault._ He made his little brother _cry--_ “You said I couldn’t _defend myself_ because I’m _quirkless._ I want to be a hero so I can save people! I want to save _you,_ but if I can’t even defend myself then I don’t know how I-- how I can--” he dissolves into tears, the rest of his sentence unintelligible amidst the bawling.

“I didn’t--” Ed swallows. He’s messed up. He has to _fix_ this. “I didn’t mean it, Al. I just-- I want to protect you. You’re my little brother. I can’t do that if we’re not together.”

“Yeah, well you can’t do that if Daddy hits you either,” Al’s chin juts out defiantly. “He’s bigger than you, and he’s crazy too. He might kill you.”

_Crazy._ Ed hasn’t ever thought about it like that-- Daddy’s _sick,_ not crazy. There’s a difference, but it’s a difference that their father has explained to Ed. Neither of them have ever talked to Al about it, because seeing Al cry is the worst thing in the world.

So, Al doesn’t understand, and that’s probably a _mistake._

They’re at an impasse, because it’s not like either of them are going to back down and just _let_ the other get hurt for their own sake-- but they can’t stay this way either, red-faced and teary and glaring.

Ed holds out an arm. “Hug?” he gestures weakly, hurriedly scrubbing at the few salt water tracks that have made their way down his own cheeks with his other hand. “Please?”

It’s only when Al is clinging steadfastly to him that he realises something is _wrong._ It takes him just a few seconds to identify it, but he can smell smoke, and where there’s smoke, there’s fire. In their crummy apartment block with it's poor ventilation and papier-mache walls, the possibilities are almost universally disastrous.

So it's with a stiffness that comes from having his fraught nerves wound one too many times that Ed pulls back, shoving at his brother until they're face to face. "We need to get out of here."

Somewhere in the near distance, alarms begin to blare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... that was a lot
> 
> with Al calling their Dad crazy, he doesn't understand mental illness and addiction, and he's never been taught, so he's just trying to explain it in his own ten year old way. I just thought I should clarify that.
> 
> regardless, I hope you guys liked it! :-)


	5. without fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this chapter is definitely the beginning of when shit hits the fan, as a few commenters put it last chapter.
> 
> I have a confession to make, and that is that for the past few days I have been thinking and thinking, and a plot has been sprawling in front of me, and I have made the decision to double the number of chapters this fic has. 
> 
> I still have a rough plan of how many of course, I just--- my idea will not leave me alone and this is the result.
> 
> Regardless, I really hope you guys enjoy the chapter! :-)

There’s _so much_ smoke in the hallway. Ed can barely breathe and he makes Al stay back in the closed-off kitchen, because his brother’s lungs still aren’t quite as good as they had been before his bout of pneumonia. 

He knows better than to open the front door, even for a peek, because he knows how fast fire can spread. It’s a frightening thought, how thin a wall there might be between himself and a blazing inferno, but he pushes past it, throwing his father’s door open as though he hadn’t been fleeing from that same room earlier. The air is thick; stagnant and almost hazy from the tendrils of smoke wafting under the door.

Daddy isn’t in bed-- no, instead he’s on the _floor._ It’s not the first time Ed has found him collapsed against their threadbare carpet, but it never fails to turn his blood to ice, because _what if he’s dead, what if--_

Ed finds himself on his knees, narrowly avoiding a puddle of vomit, pressing two of his fingers against his father’s neck before he takes in the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest. When he digs his fingers in further, he finds a thready pulse. It’s weak and unsteady, but it’s _there,_ and Ed has to choke back a sob because he can’t afford to crack _now._ Not when Al and Daddy are _relying_ on him to get them all out of here.

The smog is burning his lungs, and as Ed gasps for breath he realises that if _he’s_ struggling, the fragile string his father’s life hinges on might very well snap, and so he pulls him quickly into the recovery position, grimacing as he swipes inside the man’s mouth for any vomit that might be remaining. He’s simultaneously relieved and disgusted that he did when he pulls his hand away covered in sick.

“Ed!”

“Al,” Ed wipes his hand on the floor and pushes himself to his feet. “What are you doing here? I told you to--”

Al starts coughing. “There’s smoke _everywhere,”_ he gasps, as Ed pulls him into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. “The kitchen doesn’t have big enough windows, we need to--” he suddenly pushes himself away from his brother, lunging for the comparatively larger windows of their father’s bedroom. _“Ed,_ why didn’t you _open them?”_

“I--” Ed feels stupid. Maybe it was because he found Daddy dying on the floor, choking on his own vomit, or that amidst his panic he just _forgot,_ but he can’t dwell on that now. He clambers over their father, reaching to help Al with the latch, pushing the glass panes wide open, and inhaling blessed, smoke free air. 

“What do we do?” Al whispers, clutching at Ed’s forearm with shaking fingers. “We-- we _can’t_ go out the front, it’s-- I think that’s where it’s coming from, Ed,” he glances down at the floor, at the prone form still lying there, perfectly still. “And _Daddy--”_

He’s crying, Ed realises. Al’s crying again, but for once the thought doesn’t make him sick to his stomach, because there’d have to be something _really_ wrong if Al _wasn’t_ crying. It’s normal to cry when the world is burning, isn’t it?

Ed reaches up to touch his own dry face. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, with a sickening clarity. “Al, I-- I’m not sure there’s anything we _can_ do.”

The whole apartment block must be on fire, if the number of siren wails are anything to go by. It’s not safe to leave the flat. It’s probably not safe to leave the _room,_ so Ed stuffs a blanket against the thin gap under the door, and the steady stream of smoke pouring through it becomes a little _less_ steady. With the window open they won’t suffocate, though even the air outside is becoming markedly hazy, and the roar of flames is suddenly audible, loud and unsettling.

There sirens are getting closer, the screeching almost unbearable, and there’s a blistering heat that Ed knows must be from one of the apartments below them. The thought makes him nauseous, because he’d _known_ that at least a few of the flats had caught fire, but the confirmation sends a tingle of fear up his spine. It’s aggressive, he can hear that much. He’s not sure whoever lives there is going to survive this, and he knows that if their own front door is unable to withstand the flames, they very well might not survive this _either._

He might not be able to keep Al safe.

He sticks his head out the window, and even through the thick smoke and billowing heat, he can make out the telltale red of the fire trucks and the white ambulance vans, because there’s no way they won’t be needed. People are going to die, and people are going to get hurt, and there probably won’t be enough medics for everyone. There’s even a few police cars, and a number of people wearing strange costumes who, Ed discerns with a startle, might actually be _heroes,_ begin to pile out of them. They each survey the scene with a look of horror, and something inside him begins to crumble further. 

Ed watches as they scatter, before he can even _begin_ to call out, to ask them to look _up._ It doesn’t stop him yelling though, because he has to _try._ Even as hot smoke licks at his throat, even as _Al_ tries to join him and immediately starts heaving bile, because Al’s lungs are still a little sick and he’s beginning to realise his younger brother _can’t cope._ Daddy is still breathing, and that matters too, but not quite as much because there’s only one of Ed and one of his brother and he can’t even begin to start figuring out where their father fits into his mental landscape.

“Please!” He chokes, his face red from the heat and voice hoarse from the smoke and the screaming. “Please, we’re _here.”_

He can’t use his quirk. The building is so unstable it’ll probably come crashing down on _everyone_ if Ed isn’t careful. And he doesn’t know _how_ _to_ be careful, not with _so much_ at stake. 

He _knows_ there are people here who want to save him, people who are good, who chose to become heroes, just like Al wants to be-- but Ed’s never been the sort to look at the world and just _believe._ Believe that everyone who needs to be saved _is_ saved. Believe that good will win. Believe that winning doesn’t come without a price. Ed knows none of this is true. He knows, he _knows_ that something has to give. That there’s no life without loss, that somewhere there’s an equivalency to be had. His whole life has been a series of reminders that if he wants something, _he_ has to get it. He’s not like Al. He can’t just sit here and _hope_ for rescue, and _believe_ in heroes like some kind of _child._

_He_ has to be willing to pay the price. 

Which is why he hoists himself onto the windowsill, ignoring Al’s strangled protests amidst his hacking coughs and wet gags, because if he doesn’t then _they’re going to die,_ and at least if Ed makes himself more visible they _stand a chance._

Something crumbles and Ed slams his hand into the brick wall _pushing,_ and suddenly there’s an indent and he curls his fingers, grasping his home-made handhold as he desperately tries to find his footing. He clings to the open window with his other arm, probably putting far too much weight onto the hinge, but he doesn’t have a _choice,_ because of Al and Daddy, and because getting noticed might make the difference between life and death, and Ed--

Ed _screams._

And someone-- someone’s suddenly _staring_ at him, all the way from the ground, looking up, face a picture of shock, and then--

“Eraser!” 

The hinge, rusted and old, breaks under the pressure.

Ed is _falling._

Until he’s _not._

A strip of cloth, that feels a little like rope, is encircling his ribcage. A few of his ribs are probably cracked, because the pain of the cloth cutting into him is almost unbearable, but-- but he’s _alive,_ inches from the ground, seconds from becoming yet another body, because he knows those are piling up. 

Arms reach for him, taking the weight off of his chest, unwrapping the cloth in what seems like practiced ease. A low, almost _familiar,_ voice murmurs things he can’t quite catch and that are probably meant to be comforting but fundamentally _aren’t._

He’s lifted up and cradled as though he’s a much younger child. It’s not until he moves his arm to cling to the stranger’s shoulder that recognition floods through him, because there’s a strange metal box in the way, and that means this is one of _Al’s_ heroes, and maybe even Ed’s too a little bit, because the radio show is actually kind of soothing to listen to, and--

_Al._

“My brother,” he gasps, and the man carrying him falters.

“There’s another child in there?” 

And now-- now, Ed _definitely_ recognises the voice as belonging to Present Mic.

“Y-yeah,” Ed twists and nearly vomits from the pain. “He’s-- he’s--” he’s still _in there,_ he means to say, but he can barely _breathe,_ and every other gasp is a cough. “Please, _please--”_

“Okay,” Present Mic murmurs, tightening his arms around Ed and moving a whole lot faster all of a sudden. “Which apartment?”

Ed gives him the number, and the hero reaches to fiddle with something by his ear, which Ed quickly realises must be some kind of earpiece. “You got that, Dante?”

There must be an affirmative because Present Mic doesn’t say anything more to the person on the other end, instead turning to Ed and humming a silly nursery rhyme that would be condescending in pretty much any other situation, but somehow _isn’t_ in this one. “It’s gonna be okay, kiddo,” he sings gently as they arrive at an ambulance. “You’re going to be okay,” and when Ed is told to let go and he finds he _can’t,_ Present Mic sits down with him instead and _stays,_ even as they listen to Ed’s chest and tape up his ribs _._ “I’m on civilian duty,” is all he says when the paramedic questions it. “There’s not much I can do against a fire like that.”

Ed understands the need to feel useful, to be doing _something._ He remembers doing his best to heal Al's injuries after he’d been roughed up by a couple of older kids, remembers seeing his brother bleeding on the pavement, bullies long gone-- remembers _pressing_ the wounds together as though Al were a sock puppet, all seams and stitches of his skin's own making, and he-- he _hates_ having to do that, but he will for Al. He remembers the sickness he’d felt, the burning in the pit of his stomach, seeing his baby brother hurt _so badly--_ how he’d rushed to help and how even wiping away Al’s tears had felt like the smallest of triumphs, because at least Al was hurting that _little bit less._

He wonders whether that might be how Present Mic is feeling right now, so he turns and tugs at the man’s sleeve from under his arm, whispering “thank you,” when he glances down.

The smile he gets back is a bit sad, but maybe a little genuine, because the hero squeezes him gently, murmuring just as quietly, “You’re very welcome, little listener.”

Present Mic is a good person, Ed affirms, because Present Mic is just as kind as Al.

Al, who is very clearly still trapped somewhere in that building, because he’s not _here_ and yet he _should be,_ because he’s definitely injured. The fire service and heroes are barely keeping up with the flames. The air is still burning even as the ground becomes sodden, water running in rivulets under the wheels of the ambulances and fire engines and police cars. The ambulances are peeling off, one by one, and even fewer are returning, and Ed is transferred to wait with the police because he’s not a high priority patient. Which is okay, because he’s not leaving without Al. 

“My brother,” he croaks, as they watch the carnage unfold from the boot of a police car. “He’s not here.”

Present Mic doesn’t reply for a moment, though he looks down at Ed, pulling him more firmly against his side. “I can’t ask for updates, kiddo,” he finally responds. “Distractions like that could jeopardise someone’s safety.”

“Will they tell you?” Ed whispers, “When they find them?”

“...them?” 

And suddenly, the hero isn’t by Ed’s side at all, but crouched in front of him. “It’s not just your brother in there?”

“Daddy too,” Ed swallows. He’s not _supposed_ to talk about their father, in case they get taken away, but-- but it’s probably _important,_ and it’s not as if he decided _not_ to tell, he just kind of forgot, because Al is-- Al is more important, isn’t he? “He’s drunk. He drank a whole bottle.”

Present Mic’s eyes are impossibly wide.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says shakily. “I forgot. I’m sorry, I forgot, I--” he cuts himself off, pressing _hard_ against his eyes with clenched fists. _“I’m sorry.”_

“Hey,” large hands cover his own, pulling them away from his face. Present Mic’s soft smile is back. “It’s okay kiddo,” he says. “It’s okay. It just means I need you to answer a few questions. Do you think you can do that for me, bud?”

Ed bobs his head numbly.

“Your dad and brother,” Present Mic asks seriously. “Were they awake?”

“Al was,” Ed closes his eyes. “He was coughing, but he was-- he was awake. Daddy w-wasn’t--” he chokes, and Present Mic squeezes his hands gently.

There’s a roaring in Ed’s ears. “I put him in the recovery position,” he’s shaking suddenly, tremors wracking his body. “There was sick in his mouth but I-- I pulled it out. He was breathing. I checked, I checked,” he gasps for air because he’s not sure there _is_ any anymore. “He was breathing. He was breathing.”

“Kid, hush, it’s okay. No more questions, you did good. You did so well. Now, how about we slow down, yeah? In and out. _Yeah,_ exactly like that.”

Ed clenches his eyes shut, clinging to the words and clutching the hands gently grasping his own, trying to emulate the hero’s exaggerated breaths. 

“That’s it,” Present Mic murmurs. “You’re okay. You did well kiddo, I’ve just gotta-- ah, Tsukauchi-san,” he stands, placing a hand on Ed’s shoulder and beckoning a police officer over. “I’ve got to relay some info. Mind sitting with this little one for a moment?” 

The officer’s shadow falls over him as Present Mic moves away, before the man is settling into the spot next to Ed. “Rough night?” He offers, his tone a little wry.

Ed can’t help the shocked giggle that escapes him. It’s not funny. Nothing about this is _funny,_ but all the same, he finds himself snorting at the remark. “I guess,” he mumbles, pulling his legs up to tuck his knees under his chin. 

“There are some good heroes here, kid,” the officer waits until Ed glances up at him before carrying on in that same, gentle tone Present Mic had used. “A solid rescue team. I know it’s hard to believe right now, but there’s a good chance your family is going to be okay.”

“Heroes can’t save everyone.”

The officer’s eyes are momentarily shadowed, an expression not quite akin to bitterness etching itself into his face. “No, they can’t,” he says, and maybe there’s a little grief in his voice.

Ed knows what grief looks like.

The moment passes just as suddenly as it came, and the man squeezes Ed’s forearm gently. “It’s always good to hope, though,” his lips twitch, as though attempting a smile, though Ed can’t help but think it’s not quite as sincere as Present Mic’s. “It’ll be okay, buddy.”

It’ll be okay. He doesn’t know if he can quite believe that.

They’re both silent after that, and Ed watches Present Mic pacing rapidly back and forth. He’s clearly still talking into his earpiece, and the grim look on his face is doing nothing to reassure Ed.

And then he just-- stops.

The officer beside Ed stiffens. “Stay here.” One moment he’s speaking sharply to Ed, and the next he’s striding towards Present Mic, grabbing the other man by the shoulder in a grip that looks like it _hurts._

Something’s wrong. 

And then they’re both _sprinting_ towards the building, just as the main entrance doors are being flung open, a man staggering out, hauling something-- _someone--_ something over one shoulder, cradling another _something--_ someone, it _must_ be a person, but they’re so goddamn _small, and--_

Al’s tiny little head lolls sickeningly, flopping over the man’s arm, and-- _and--_

Ed doesn’t know when he started running. 

“Al!” He’s _screaming,_ he knows, and he can almost feel the eyes on his back as heads turn. “Al, _Al, Al--” please be okay, please, please please--_

The same cloth from before snakes around his waist, pulling taut, and he’s flying backwards. His vision whites out for a moment, his taped ribs screaming in protest as he collides forcefully with something solid. He doesn’t even have time to struggle before there’s an arm looping around his chest, pinning him in a crushing but gentler hold. “Calm down, kid,” there’s a low voice in his ear, but he can barely hear anything above the roaring fire in his head.

Present Mic is pulling _Daddy_ onto his back at the same time the police officer takes Al, and the man who had been carrying the two of them slumps to the graveled drive, breathing heavily. Two paramedics rush to help him, even as half a dozen more are running towards his little brother and father, strapping them into stretchers, wheeling them towards the ambulances, carrying them _away--_

“That’s my brother!” Ed shouts. “That’s my _dad,”_ he digs his heel into his captor’s shin. “Let me _go.”_

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Ed feels the cloth loosen from around his torso. He isn’t released, the grip on his shoulders twisting in a way that forces him to turn until the ambulances are behind him. There’s a hand on the back of his head and dark eyes that stare down at him from a scruffy face. The stranger won’t let him look away, simply moving into Ed’s line of sight every time he even _tries,_ and its only when the sirens finally fade into the distance that the man drops into a crouch in front of him, murmuring, “It’s going to be okay. I’m a hero, kid. You’re safe now.”

And even though Ed is heartily _sick_ of those words-- even though he _knows_ it won’t be, there’s something about this man that reminds him of Present Mic, who reminds him of _Al--_ Al, his little, baby brother who might _die--_ might _already be_ _dead--_

And.

And there are tears sliding down his face, and he sobs, pulling his arms around his chest which kind of _hurts,_ because his ribs are aching and everything just feels _hollow._

“Don’t leave,” Ed begs.

The hero reaches for his hand, squeezing it tightly. “I’m not going to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So to summarise, Ed kicks Aizawa in the shin...


	6. Present Mic's heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did say I was going to explain what happened to Al in the next chapter, but I have exams and I wouldn't have been able to finish such a long chapter for a week at least.
> 
> CW: There's a panic attack/ dissociative state in the second half of this chapter.

Ed can barely remember the first time he rode in an ambulance. He recalls phoning the emergency services, though at the time he only knew he was calling for help, and he remembers the doctor who held his hand as he watched medics load his mother into the back of the van, but the ride itself is… _hazy_ at best. He thinks he can remember crying, but he isn’t sure if it had been Al’s or his own. 

He doesn’t have to this time. The hero, Eraserhead, carries him to a police car and sits beside him in the backseat while Present Mic takes the front and the officer, Tsukauchi, settles behind the wheel. Eraserhead helps Ed with the seatbelt, tugging on the strap a few times, before making sure it's not too tight on his ribs.

“What’s your name, kid?” Eraserhead turns to him as soon as the car begins to move. 

Ed can’t help but stiffen. He doesn’t like questions-- he always says too much, and it tends to be safer not to give answers. Even this kind of question, which should be harmless, always devolves into a much longer conversation, because Ed’s name isn’t Japanese. 

Not that he can really refuse to give his name to two pro heroes and a police officer.

“Edward Elric,” he whispers, and watches in dismay as Present Mic sits up a little straighter.

**_“You speak any English, little listener?”_ **

And _oh._ He hadn’t been expecting _that._

_**“Yeah,**_ **”** Ed replies, suddenly flummoxed. He hasn’t spoken English since his mother died. Daddy had just… _stopped._ Stopped speaking the language, stopped replying when Ed and Al did-- they’d learned quickly not to, after that. **_“It’s-- it was my first language.”_ **

English sounds the way his mother felt; like safety, warmth, comfort, even from the lips of a stranger. Ed finds himself relaxing, a tightness in his chest that he hadn’t realised was there in the first place easing, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“You alright?” Eraserhead nudges him gently. Ed glances up to see the man grinning stiffly down at him.

_Disturbing._

“Y-yeah,” Ed takes the transition from English to Japanese as poorly as anyone fluent in both languages can. Switching between the two comes as easily as riding a bike with a rusted chain-- that is, if the chain had been rusting for five years and the bike not ridden since. He flushes. “I’m-- I haven’t in a long time. Spoken it, I mean. Sorry,” he directs the apology towards the front seat, but the words come out rushed and garbled in their delivery and he winces, clamping his mouth shut and staring desperately out the window. Beyond the patches of light thrown down by street lamps, the world appears drenched in shadow, swallowed by the stillness of the night air.

“It’s okay, little listener,” Present Mic is concerned and utterly soft, swapping to Japanese flawlessly.

_No,_ Ed wants to whisper. _I wasn’t upset._ _It just reminded me of Mummy._

But that’s personal, and so he doesn’t. He turns back to the occupants of the car instead, and waits for the inevitability of more questioning to befall him.

“Your face,” Eraserhead prods further at his wounded pride. “It’s bruised. What happened to it?”

His _face…_?

Oh.

It feels like an eternity ago.

“It looks like somebody got a hit in,” Eraserhead’s eyes narrow, and despite his calm tone, Ed thinks the man might actually be angry.

_“He’s drunk,”_ Ed had told Present Mic earlier. _“He drank a whole bottle.”_

It’s too late. They know, he’s sure of it. Eraserhead already _knows_ who hit him, but he’s asking anyway, and Ed really isn’t sure why. Maybe so they have proof; so they can take Al and Ed _away_ from Daddy, and shouldn’t Ed really be doing something to _stop_ that? He’s read so many stories online about kids who get separated from their siblings in foster care, and Al is quirkless, and if _that_ isn’t a disaster waiting to happen--

He _can’t_ let them take Al. 

Except that they _already have._

_“I want to tell someone,”_ Al had said. 

Ed is horror struck when he realises that if Al _does_ die, if Al _is_ dead, that will have been his last request. He _doesn’t_ have a choice, not really, because Al wants Ed to tell.

“Somebody did,” he finally whispers, twisting his hands in his lap, keeping his gaze straight ahead.

“Who?” Eraserhead’s voice catches on the word, low and just as stiff as his smile had been. Ed feels similarly caught, but it’s his own fault for willingly walking into a trap that he’d known was there. 

There’s a soft “Shouta” from the front of the car. Ed blinks at the familiarity shown, but otherwise doesn’t move. He thinks it might have been a reprimand, but Eraserhead doesn’t give any signs of backing down, and Ed doesn’t really want him to.

“My dad,” he tells them, as though he’s walking to the gallows. “He was drunk,” he allows the trap to snap shut without fanfare, and waits until he’s sure the man beside him has mentally pocketed the evidence before turning to look up at him once more.

Eraserhead’s expression is dark, his eyes shadowed as they flicker over the bruise marring Ed’s face. He reaches carefully, movements steady as though not to startle, grasping the boy’s shoulder with a light pressure. The middle seat between them isn’t much of a seat at all, and Ed can almost lean into the contact. He wants to, but the space is just enough that the act would come across as purposeful, and he’s forgotten how to seek comfort not freely given. There’s been a distance between Ed and the adults in his life for a long time, and he feels too awkward to ask for closeness now. 

Maybe that distance stretches between Ed and the world as well. It is, at the very least, an arm's length, because Al is usually holding his hand, and Ed likes to keep the rest of the world away from his vulnerable little brother.

“--brave for telling us,” the police officer is saying, doubtless speaking to _him,_ but Ed is feeling spacey.

Though it’s not exactly difficult to guess what the man is talking about.

“My brother wanted me to,” he says, shrugging, jostling Eraserhead’s hand from his shoulder as he does. “Al is usually right.”

So is Ed, but if he can help it he’ll put Al’s judgement above his own, in the rare occurrence that they come into conflict. 

“So he’s older than you,” Eraserhead surmises, the corners of his mouth turning down. He doesn’t look as though he’s angry though. He’s wearing the same expression Al sometimes does, when there’s a problem to solve and the pieces of the puzzle aren’t fitting together right-- and sure, maybe it’s actually a logical conclusion to make. Ed knows that older siblings are kind of _supposed_ to bully younger ones a bit, because they do in all the storybooks, but Ed and Al have never been like that with one another. 

“No, I’m eleven. Al--” Ed swallows, hesitating, because it’s kind of _horrible_ isn’t it? The way _today,_ of all days, has turned out _._ “Al’s birthday is today. He’s ten.”

There’s a silence then, and it’s close to becoming stale before Eraserhead finally breaks it, voice rough, “I’m sorry, kid.”

Ed sniffs back threatening tears. “You didn’t start the fire.”

“Somebody did,” Eraserhead insists, and sure, if he wants to care _that much,_ it’s not like Ed can stop him. “You didn’t deserve this. Neither of you,” his lip curls into a grimace. “I’ll find whoever’s responsible for this.”

He says _find_ in a strange, strange way, and Ed can’t help but envision a dark hero in a black jumpsuit and goggles, wielding an off-white scarf against whichever terrified office bureaucrat was in charge of building regulations in the poorer areas of Musutafu, “You don’t have to do that, Eraserhead.”

“Why not?” Present Mic interjects, twisting in his seat to do so. There’s a funny expression on his face, a bit like Eraserhead’s-- and just like Eraserhead, Ed doesn’t quite know what to make of him in that moment.

“You probably can’t,” Ed says haltingly. “It could’ve been anyone. A lit cigarette, a gas stove. The walls are like paper, it’d only have taken a spark.” Obvious, all too obvious to Ed, but maybe not so to these heroes. Maybe they’ve never lived in the kind of places he has. It feels like that should make him bitter, but there isn’t any room for bitterness anymore; he’s not sure even _that_ could displace the dread, the terror-- the _grief_.

Something’s been lost, even if just a home; even if an entire family.

“I see,” Eraserhead murmurs, something a little like resolve flickering across his countenance. “Thanks kid, that’s helpful.”

And the thing is, he sounds like he actually _means it._

Ed briefly considers that his vision might come to pass.

* * *

The hospital is _busy._

Ed can tolerate Present Mic’s insistence that he hold his hand as they weave their way through the swathes of patients and nurses and crying mothers, but he can’t help but be a little indignant over the strange scarf looped around him in a loose hold. He knows they just don't want him to get lost, but he’s not a little kid. He's not going to run off. Besides, they’re not going the right way, because he saw a sign pointing towards the intensive care unit, which is where Al _has_ to be, but they took a wrong turn three blindingly white corridors ago and he’s feeling sicker with every step.

“My brother,” he pleads, tugging on Present Mic’s sleeve. “Where is he? Where did they take him? Can I see him?”

Present Mic’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, and he’s shaking his head. “It’ll be alright, little listener,” he says. “We’ll find out for you once we’ve had you looked at, yeah?”

But Ed doesn’t _want_ that. He doesn’t know what he wants, but it’s not-- not _that._ He wants Al. He wants the peace and quiet of the car, those simple questions he’d thought he was going to _hate_ but that actually _helped_ reorganise his cluttered mind. He wants to take Al and leave. He wants Eraserhead to take them _both_ and leave-- but he doesn’t want to stay. It’s hurting his eyes. The walls are too white, the smell too sterile, the lights too blinding. It’s barely a memory, but he knows it's bittersweet, and he remembers the pain.

He stops, pulling his hand from Present Mic’s and turning to walk back the way they came, because he’s been going in the _wrong direction,_ and he has to find Al. He _has to--_

_Move._

_He can’t._

Eraserhead holds tight to the scarf wrapped loosely around Ed’s waist, even as he stoops low, pulling them both to the side of the corridor. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, from somewhere far, far away. “It’s okay. I want you to try breathing with me. Can you do that?” He exaggerates his own breaths, his chest rising and falling visibly when he does.

And Ed-- Ed _tries,_ but there’s something stopping him-- constricting, and he can’t. It’s not _really_ the scarf, it’s something else, hurting deep within his chest, and maybe he’s not so sure it’s a cracked rib this time. “Take it off,” he whispers, because _something_ is squeezing, choking him and he can’t _breathe,_ and take _what_ off? _He doesn’t know._ He _can’t--_ “Please, I can’t--” two pairs of hands work swiftly and the scarf is removed in mere seconds, but Ed still-- he thinks he remembers, because the light is so _blinding,_ and the walls are so _white,_ and perhaps Ed can tack his sums to the plaster here too. “Mummy,” he gasps, because he’s here, but he’s also _there,_ and maybe he _can_ be in two places at once when they’re the same. “I want Mummy, please, _please--_ ” 

There’s a hissed _“God”_ from someone nearby, and it must be Present Mic because Eraserhead is still crouching in front of him, hands on his shoulders, dark eyes wide and mouth taut with concern.

“Shouta, don’t ask--” Ed hears Present Mic start, but he’s cut off when the other hero shakes his head dismissively.

“I know,” Eraserhead’s eyes track upwards for a moment, before he’s focusing again. He covers one of Ed’s hands with his own, resting the clenched fist against his chest. “I want you to breathe with me,” he repeats. “It’s just us here, kid.”

No white walls. No hospital. Just them.

When Eraserhead takes another breath, Ed does too.

“That’s good,” the hero says gently. “Alright, Elric?”

Ed nods shakily. 

“You think you can tell us what set you off?”

The question is cautious. There’s an opportunity to back out, somewhere there, but the storm raging inside him is calmer now, his pulse walking a steady gait. Ed has no reason to lie, and for once it's freeing. The truth on the tip of his tongue doesn’t burn when he allows it to pass his lips. “It reminds me of my-- of _Mummy._ ”

Present Mic kneels beside them, his hair tower somehow even taller at eye level. “What does, little listener?”

“The hospital.”

Ed has to watch his expression crumple. He doesn’t like it, because with the blond hair and kind eyes, Present Mic reminds Ed a little _too_ much of Al. They’re similar. He’s always known Al has it in him to be a hero, but now, confronted by the possibility of that future, something settles in his chest. He was _right._ He’s _always_ been right. It’s not a quirk that makes a hero, it’s the heart. Al’s heart.

“We’re taking you to the paediatrics ward,” Eraserhead squeezes his shoulder. His eyes are sad. “It doesn’t look like the rest of the hospital does. Have you been there before?”

Ed shakes his head.

The hero looks like he expected that. “We don’t have far to go now. You can walk if you like, but if you let one of us carry you, you’ll be able to keep your eyes closed until we get there,” he hesitates, briefly, gaze flickering over Ed as though gaging his reaction. “Is that alright?”

“Will you leave?” Ed whispers. “Are you going to leave me there?”

He doesn’t want to be left alone.

“Not if you don’t want us to.”

Ed stumbles forward, reaching out to cling to the hero’s black jumpsuit. “Don’t,” he mumbles into the fuzzy fabric. “Please don’t.” 

His face is full of _scarf,_ and the words come out muffled and distorted, but he thinks they understand anyway. Eraserhead lets out a heavy sigh, pulling Ed into his arms as he straightens. “Let’s go, kid,” he sounds tired. 

Ed’s tired too.

When he closes his eyes, he drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aizawa: Oh look, a sad child... wonder where I put those adoption papers...


	7. break things down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: this chapter is basically one big panic.

_The summer sun burns brightly. It’s a warm day; warmer, perhaps, than is usual at this time of year, when the green leaves threaten to curl in on themselves, darkening to the colour of Mummy’s hair._

_“He’s found us,” Mummy is whispering. She isn’t anywhere Ed can see, her voice bodiless and malformed. “He's found us Van, and after Malachi--_ _I just can’t lose them too. Why else would he be here? Van,_ Van--”

_“It’s okay,” Daddy whispers, standing tall, the way he hasn’t since Ed was just a little boy. “It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay--”_

_A fire rages, blazing, the sky now aflame. The sun has set the sky on fire, Ed thinks._

_Al climbs to his feet before him, next to Daddy, burning, flesh blistered and sooty, hair charred. His head lolls sickeningly to the side, and his green-gold eyes are closed, and maybe he_ isn’t _standing, not anymore._

_Not anymore._

_“No,” Ed clutches at his brother’s limp arm. “No, Al. Please, wake up._ Wake up--”

_“Wake up, kiddo,” Daddy kneels, his hand on Ed’s head. “C’mon now.”_

_“Al,” Ed lays his palm on the child’s body. “Please, Al. Please, please.”_

_“It’s okay, little listener,” Daddy takes hold of Ed’s shoulders. “You’re okay.”_

_“Al,” Ed cries and cries. “Please, I love you. Please wake up.”_

_“Elric-kun,” Daddy shakes him. “Wake up buddy, come_ on--”

*

*

*

Ed is crying.

There’s an arm around his shoulders, levering him into a sitting position, and a leather jacket pressing against his cheek, damp and sticky, because leather probably isn’t meant for tears. “It’s okay,” someone soothes, words lilting. “Just breathe, kid. It’s all okay.”

_It’s all okay._ Ed sucks in a shaky breath. He recognises the voice. He _remembers--_

Remembering _hurts._

“Present Mic?” the words are hushed as he pulls away, blinking up at the hero through bleary eyes. He sees hair as blond as Al’s, and eyes that are green, like the grass in his garden used to be; green like _Mummy’s--_

Present Mic smiles gently as he settles into a chair beside the bed-- a _hospital_ bed, Ed realises. “That’s right, kiddo,” he keeps hold of Ed’s forearm; a light pressure that’s almost grounding. 

Ed _needs_ that right now. His head is spinning so much he thinks he might begin to _float_ if it doesn’t stop soon. “It was real, wasn’t it?” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears still threatening to fall. “It-- it was _real.”_

Not all of it, he thinks. But-- but _enough._

“The nightmare?” Present Mic asks, brow furrowing when Ed nods. “Ah. Okay, _well._ Mind telling me what it was about?”

“Al was burning.”

_Al’s head, lolling sickeningly, charred and broken and--_

Ed blinks, clenching his fists around starched bed linen. It’s coloured, like the rest of the room. The pediatrics ward, he knows, is a ward of the hospital built specifically for _children,_ and it looks the part. The walls are painted forget-me-not blue, and the curtains drawn across the hospital windows are decorated with sparrows. There are glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, and the lights are soft.

_“It doesn’t look like the rest of the hospital.”_

It _doesn’t_ make him think about Mummy. He supposes that’s a good thing.

“Your brother didn’t burn, Elric-kun,” Present Mic squeezes his hand. The smile has dropped from his face, though his expression is still gentle; still something akin to pitying. “He’s alive. Your father, too.”

Ed swallows. _Alive._ There’s something about the way it’s said. _He’s alive,_ not _he’s okay._

Maybe he _isn’t_ okay.

But he didn’t burn. He’s alive. Doesn’t that mean something?

Present Mic ducks his head, catching Ed’s eyes. “Hey now,” he says softly. “It’s okay, buddy--”

“It’s _not,_ ” Ed chokes out hoarsely, a sob escaping before he can stop it. “It’s not and I don’t-- I don’t know what to _do._ ”

He _hates_ it. He hates the way the hero’s eyes widen, hates the pity and the hurt that he _knows_ is for him. It’s just one more reminder that he’s _failed_ his little brother, in some way, because there’s something the man isn’t telling him, and Ed is _afraid._

“Let _us_ sort it out,” Present Mic catches Ed’s hand in his own. “We’re not going to leave you to face this by yourself, kid.”

“But--” but there’s nobody _left._ It’s just Ed and Al now, by themselves, and _Al--_

_Al’s alive._   
  


There’s nobody left except Al. They’re alone, because there’s _no way_ they’ll be given back to Daddy after everything that’s happened. 

_Your father, too._

Is he a terrible person for not really caring? He loves Daddy, just like he loves Mummy, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’ve _both_ left him now.

Ed doesn’t blame Mummy-- not at all-- but sometimes he wishes, _wonders,_ about what might have been if she’d never died. Would she have stayed? Would Daddy have looked after them all like he was _supposed_ to?

He trusts that Mummy would have stayed. He thinks Daddy might have found another reason to fall apart; another reason to drink, to hurt and _abandon._

_“We’re not going to leave you to face this by yourself.”_

Present Mic is a _hero._ It’s practically demanded of him to be kind, to be a good person. To _care,_ even. He's implying more than one person that cares, which is two more than Ed has ever thought would. He kind of suspects the other might be Eraserhead. Which makes sense, because Eraserhead is a hero too. 

Heroes care, even if they can’t save everyone. 

Heroes are good people.

But even good people tell lies; _especially_ grown-ups.

Present Mic is _lying_ to make him feel better-- not about Al, he thinks, because that would be a _bad_ thing to lie about, but he’s definitely lying about the other things.

It’s not _going to be okay._ That’s a lie. That’s always been a lie. So, strike one.

They _will_ leave him. Nobody stays, not for long. Not for a quirkless little boy and his brother. Daddy is the only one who’s ever _tried,_ before the bottles of _medicine_ stole him away from them. Strike two.

And Ed? Ed is _alone._ With or or without Al, he’s always been by himself, and to promise otherwise is--

It’s a _lie._

“Little listener?” Present Mic asks cautiously, because Ed is taking too long to reply, and apparently that’s cause for concern. “You good, kid?”

It’s a lie. Ed wants to _scream._

“You don’t have to pretend,” he hisses cattily, bitterness churning in the pit of his stomach. “It’s--” he almost chokes trying to force the words out of his mouth. “It’s okay. You don’t have to _pretend._ We’re _fine_ on our _own._ ”

He tries to be angry, but it comes out broken and scared. Like him, he supposes.

In the wake of his outburst, Present Mic _stares,_ eyes widening with poorly concealed horror, before he's blinking rapidly, turning away until his face is hidden. 

“Are you--?” Ed starts, before cutting himself off. He doesn’t really know what to do, because he’s made a hero _cry._ He hadn’t thought that what he’d said was really that _mean,_ but maybe it had been? “I’m sorry,” he squeaks. “I--” he flounders for something to say. When Al cries, Ed gives him a hug. When Daddy cries, he ignores Ed and Al and locks himself in his bedroom with his bottles. Ed doesn’t know how to comfort adults, but Present Mic is _really, really_ similar to Al, so maybe-- “Do… do you want a hug?” he whispers shakily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry, I’m really, really sorry--”

He’s interrupted when Present Mic turns back to him, head shaking insistently, “You didn’t kiddo,” he still isn’t smiling, and his eyes are suspiciously watery, but his face is dry. That, at least, hadn’t been a lie. _“I’m_ sorry, you dig? I-- ah, I let my emotions get the better of me. That wasn’t cool, since I’m the grown-up round these parts,” he sighs, “and it was really nice of you to offer a hug, buddy, but I don’t want one unless _you_ do, yeah? You shouldn’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

There’s so much there that Ed just _doesn’t understand._ Grown-ups _do_ get to be sad, and he's done something wrong and now he has to fix it, but Present Mic is being _confusing_ and _kind,_ even though Ed _hasn't been._ Even though Ed doesn’t _deserve it._

“But I _hurt_ you,” he curls in on himself, ignoring the way his ribs twinge. “I snapped and then you got sad, and that was my fault.”

He has to be careful, too, because saying the wrong thing can make people really sad, and then they leave for a long time and don’t go to work, and Ed doesn’t get enough money to buy food for Al. 

_“You_ didn’t hurt me,” Present Mic explains patiently, “and I’m not really sad, I’m--” he pauses, frowning slightly. “I’m concerned,” he offers after a moment. “You’ve told me some very concerning things that I... well, that I _can’t_ leave alone. Honestly, little listener, I don’t think--”

“We won’t be allowed to live with Daddy anymore,” Ed cuts in, dully, “will we?”

It’s not a question, not really.

“No,” Present Mic says softly. “He wasn’t looking after you, kiddo.”

“I can look after myself,” Ed whispers weakly, “and Al, too. I have been, for--”

For five years, maybe, ever since Mummy died? Or longer, because she was sick and sleeping, and Daddy was working and--

“For how long?” Present Mic prompts.

Ed doesn’t know. He stares at the starched sheets covering his knees, fighting the urge to curl up completely. “What’s going to happen to us?” he asks, instead of answering. “Al is-- he’s quirkless, and I know they might split us up if we go into care. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but he doesn’t have to. Being quirkless invites pain, and foster care is going to make that a whole lot worse.

Present Mic makes a noise of understanding in his throat. “That’s why you never told anyone,” he surmises. “That’s--” he frowns, the corners of his mouth turning down, “I’m sorry, kid.”

“I don’t want him to get hurt,” Ed repeats. “It was my decision,” he hesitates. “Al wanted me to tell, though.” He’s said so already, he recalls, in the police car. He wonders if Present Mic remembers. “What’s going to happen to us?” he asks again, because the hero still hasn’t answered and Ed’s starting to wonder if it’s for a reason.

_Al’s alive,_ not _Al’s okay._ Why did he say it like _that?_

“There are some things you need to know, kid,” the hero finally murmurs.

“Tell me,” Ed demands, nails digging into his skin through the sheets. _“Please,_ just _tell me._ ”

Present Mic tells him, and Ed cries.

* * *

There are so many wires.

Ed’s scared to get too close; scared because if he jostles something, breaks something, _touches anything at all because he doesn’t trust himself,_ Al could get hurt, and Ed’s already hurt his little brother enough. If he’d just _listened,_ then maybe--

“You coming in, kid?”

There’s a man, dressed in the same green hospital pyjamas that Ed is in, seated by Al’s bedside in one of the flimsy chairs dotted around the room. His eyes are dark, just like Eraserhead’s, but his black hair is cropped short. There’s a smear of soot over his left temple, and scratches across his cheek. He looks worn, but the stare he gives Ed is anything but defeated.

“I--” Ed hesitates, glancing back at the hero standing mere inches behind him. “What if I hurt him?”

Present Mic gives him a reassuring smile. “You won’t, kiddo,” he puts his hands on Ed’s shoulders, gently nudging him into the room. “Here, let’s get you sitting down. Those ribs of yours must be giving you trouble.”

They are, a little, and Ed can’t help the sigh of relief as he sinks into the cheap, plastic chair, opposite the man already sitting down. Present Mic pulls one up beside him, settling into it and resting a hand lightly on Ed’s forearm. It’s a warning as much as it is a comfort, Ed thinks, because they’re distanced enough from the bed that he wouldn’t quite be able to reach for his brother.

Al looks so vulnerable lying there. So small, swathed in sheets and covered in wires, hooked up to a ventilator, because his brother can’t even _breathe_ on his own.

_Comatose,_ Present Mic had told him, his voice softer than ever, as though each next word might be the one to break Ed, in the pastel room with the ceiling covered in stars. _Oxygen deprivation due to the amount of smoke Alphonse inhaled. Unlikely to ever recover full function._

_A chance of brain death, rapid deterioration. They just don’t know._

It’s _Ed’s fault._ If he’d just taken his brother with him, lugged him onto the windowsill somehow, _somehow._ Al’s taller but he could’ve found a way. He _should_ have found a way. Or maybe-- maybe if hadn’t upset Daddy earlier that day, his father could have helped them. Daddy is _clever,_ and he would have, Ed knows, if he’d just been sober, because even though he’s sick he still loves them so much. He would have _died for them,_ and the worst part is that Ed wishes, terribly, horribly, that their father had been _awake enough_ to _do that,_ because--

Isn’t that what parents are supposed to do?

It’s what Ed would do, for Al. It’s what he wishes he’d done.

And now-- and now Al might not even be _there--_

“Hey now,” Present Mic sounds alarmed, his hand moving to squeeze Ed’s own lightly. “We’re supposed to be breathing, bud.”

That’s not right. _Ed_ can breathe just fine. _Al’s_ the one who--

The world tilts.

“Whoa,” Present Mic’s arm curls around his shoulders, pinning him against the back of the chair. “We’re _definitely_ not doing the whole falling over thing right now. C’mon, little listener, breathe with me yeah? We’re going to take a deep breath in, counting to four.”

There’s a scrape of plastic against linoleum and the sound of footsteps as Present Mic counts and Ed heaves. He’s almost more lightheaded as the air rushes in, choking because the iron band sitting heavily around his lungs is unyielding and _he can’t breathe._

He hears, more than actually sees, someone kneeling in front of him.

“It’s not your fault.”

The words are like a lifejacket, and Ed clings to them, forcing his eyes wide open and meeting the speaker’s own dark gaze. “It is,” he gasps, his own voice garbled and barely there. “It is. I was supposed to look after him. I left him. I _left him._ ”

“You left to save him,” Present Mic murmurs. “You told me where he was. You did everything right, kiddo.”

“But I couldn’t save him,” Ed takes another, shuddering breath. It’s easier, somehow, just hearing those words. Even if they aren’t true. “I _couldn’t.”_

He doesn’t ask why, because he already knows.

Heroes can’t save everyone.

Ed isn’t even a hero.

“You still tried,” the man in front of him presses, a flicker of _something_ in his gaze, though Ed can’t quite figure out what. “Sometimes that’s all we can do, kid.”

All _we_ can do.

_It’s him._

“You’re Dante,” Ed whispers, watching as the man’s eyes widen minutely. He remembers the name of the hero Present Mic sent to find his brother. “You-- you tried too, didn’t you?”

“I did,” the hero, Dante, says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t, kid.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ed shakes his head. “It _is_ mine. I was scared and I-- I _forgot_ my dad was there-- I mean, you carried them both out. That slowed you down, didn’t it? If I’d said so earlier, you could’ve asked for backup.”

Dante’s expression darkens, and his gaze flickers towards Present Mic before coming back around to rest on Ed again. “Your father was _drunk,_ ” he near snaps, and Ed flinches before he can stop himself. 

Present Mic actually _scowls,_ “At least _try_ to have some tact, Roy.”

“Sorry,” Dante winces, taking a slow breath, as though centering himself. “Listen, kid, what happened was _not_ your fault. Your father shouldn’t have been that drunk around you in the first place, and I--” he hesitates. “If I’d thought that saving him would be detrimental to your brother’s safety, I would have asked for help. They were unconscious when I got to them, and it’s highly likely that this would have happened _whether or not_ I’d had backup. I just didn’t get there fast enough, and for that I _am_ sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ed insists. “It’s _mine._ ”

_“No it’s not,_ ” Dante looks like he’s trying really hard not to glare. “Stop blaming yourself, kid.”

_“You_ stop blaming yourself,” Ed snaps, before he can shove down the frustration that’s been bubbling up inside him. He doesn’t mean it, and he especially doesn’t mean it here, at his comatose brother’s bedside. He doesn’t want there to be a fight here. He doesn’t want a fight at all. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. Don’t shout, please, Al could hear you. Please don’t shout.”

Present Mic and Dante share a grim look that Ed doesn’t understand.

“Nobody is going to shout at you, bud,” Present Mic murmurs soothingly, his arm tightening a little around Ed’s shoulders. “This is a difficult situation, it’s okay to be upset.”

“I was rude,” Ed says softly. “That makes people mad. When they get mad, they shout.”

Dante stares at him, his gaze seeming to catch on Ed’s cheek, the same way Eraserhead’s had. “Do they do anything else?”

Ed hadn’t thought they did, but now he knows that they _do._ Daddy just hadn’t gotten angry enough before, he supposes. “They do if they get really cross,” he answers truthfully. “That’s when they hit you.”

Dante startles, naked concern plain across his face as he glances up at Present Mic, “Hizashi--”

Present Mic shakes his head, “Shouta’s dealing with it.”

Eraserhead is Shouta, Ed remembers. Present Mic called him that on the car ride to the hospital. They’re familiar enough with each other to use first names, all three of them. He wonders whether they’re friends. If they work together often, it would make sense for them to be.

Ed wouldn’t know, he doesn’t think he’s ever had friends before, besides Winry and Al, and he hasn’t seen Winry in a long, long time.

Now Al is as good as gone too.

Present Mic jostles him gently, “You still with us, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” Ed scrubs at his eyes, at the tears threatening to fall. “I’m fine, I promise.”

“It’s okay if you’re not.”

Maybe for other people, but never for Ed.

“Breathe, kid.”

Because he can’t again.

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay, let’s get back to counting, yeah?”

Something cold nudges his fingers, and he glances down. He can’t stop the tears then, and Dante tries to withdraw his hand but Ed snatches at it, clutching it in both of his own. “Where did you get that?” His voice is cracking wildly as he tries to stifle his sobs. _“Where did you get it?”_ he doesn’t dare touch the object held within, because--

“Your brother was holding it,” Dante says quietly. Ed can barely hear him over his own, ragged breathing. “Is it yours?”

“It’s _his,_ ” Ed chokes out, shivering with sudden chills and rolling nausea. “It’s his but-- but I _made_ it for him.”

“Made it?” Present Mic asks oddly, his brow furrowed as he blinks at the intricate figurine in Dante’s grasp.

“It’s m-my quirk,” Ed's teeth are chattering from how much he’s trembling. “I can-- I can make things and b-break them down, if I understand them enough.”

“That’s a powerful quirk,” Dante sounds thoughtful as he pulls his hand gently from Ed’s own. “You should keep this, kid,” he presses the figurine into Ed’s palm. “You’ll want it later on, even if not now.”

For the memories, is what goes unsaid, and it’s true.

Because even if Al wakes up, he won’t become a hero. If he wakes up at all.

Ed takes the tin can man reverently. “I do want it.”

The metal is cold, but it burns when it touches his skin. 

He welcomes the pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roy: Don't blame yourself, kid.
> 
> Mic: Excellent, you're not teaching the kid self-blame, way to go--
> 
> Roy: Because it's my fault.
> 
> Mic: Damn it.


	8. a change of perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: so this next chapter is the last in the current arc
> 
> also me: splits the chapter plan in half again
> 
> I should also probably mention here that there won't be any OCs filling important character roles, even those characters which are undisclosed. If I do write any OCs they won't be important to the plot at all.

Naomasa Tsukauchi’s coffee is tepid, over brewed and barely palatable. He drains the mug anyway, bitter granules and all, only just resisting the temptation to scowl at the file currently splayed across his own desk and half the neighbouring one. 

It’s been a while since he’s worked on a case this tragic. Mother deceased, father incapable of caring for his young children. One brother missing, another comatose, and the third likely alone in the world.

The kid had looked like he’d known it too, in the car.

Naomasa stares at the papers laid before him. _Missing_ isn’t exactly conceivable; not after all this time. Expecting a positive resolution to a thirteen year old kidnapping case is a fool’s errand, the hopeless optimism of a rookie officer, and Naomasa has no such illusions; not anymore.

His confidence wanes further when he considers the _timescale;_ the three year old child of a family with a rich, _famous_ history of powerful quirks, stolen from his home within days of his own quirk manifesting.

The entire, sordid tale has _him_ written all over it, and the implications that _his_ reach had extended so thoroughly beyond Japan is--

It’s _chilling,_ because it’s been more than a year and Naomasa still dreams about his friend’s broken, bloodied body. How many lives have been at the mercy of that man’s destruction, who'd seemingly had the entire world at his feet?

A photo of the toddler sits atop one of the files, revealing a beaming smile and bright, golden eyes. It’s painful, imagining that light snuffed out.

“Looks like a job for social services, Detective.” 

Officer Tamakawa raises a whiskered brow over his fresh _\-- okay, Naomasa might have to fight him over that--_ mug of coffee. 

“We _are_ a social service.” 

Of a _sort_ anyway. 

“Someone’s pulled a string, somewhere,” his subordinate narrows his eyes. “So who’s the puppeteer?”

“Eraserhead called,” Naomasa presses a hand against his brow, because _damn it,_ he’s bloody _tired,_ but if Aizawa thinks this is necessary, it probably _is._ “Apparently, _I’m_ the string.”

“No shit,” Tamakawa frowns at the mess, contemplative. “Well, I mean, if it _was_ him... Mind if I take a look?”

Naomasa stands immediately, because _coffee. break._ “Be my guest. I should warn you though, it’s a heavy one.” 

It sure is weighing on Naomasa, at any rate.

“You know, I figured,” Tamakawa says drily, picking up one of the files to flick through it. “You never do end up with the easy cases, Tsukauchi. It’s all work and no play with you.”

“Just do your job, Tama,” Naomasa heads to the door, giving his subordinate a final, no less than genial, look, before slipping into the empty hallway and heading in the direction of the office breakroom. He glances at the document he’d swiped from his desk, the edges of stiff paper digging into his palm.

There’s a number and a name: Izumi Curtis, social worker. Assigned watch over the Elric brothers after the boys’ father began showing signs of alcoholism and neglect. Nasty, nasty case, really, because if Aizawa is to be believed, Van Elric never recovered, despite reports stating otherwise.

He’ll stop by the coffee machine if he gets the chance, he decides, despite his burgeoning headache. Time waits for no man, and least of all for Naomasa. 

Least of all for Edward Elric.

He has a call to make.

* * *

Shouta Aizawa is no stranger to the dregs of society. He works at night, cloaked in the shadows of back alleys, hiding in the musty corners of darkened warehouses. When he finally sleeps, the atrocities he’s witnessed leave him gasping awake, soaked with sweat and pulse thrumming. Hizashi wakes with him, a cool hand pressing against his brow, whispering comfort that Shouta can barely hear over his thudding heart.

Rape. Human trafficking. Drug deals gone south. It only takes one moment; a frightened almost-child clutching a gun, in too deep to ask for help. It takes one startle, one sudden movement, before that same child shoots himself, shoots someone else. Shouta has seen this time and time again. It’s never justified. 

He’s bitterly aware of the irony; that most monsters are not born, but made; that the very people he is paid to take down have likely been shunned, walking a shadowed path before they’d even had the chance to decide who they wanted to be. In a fair world, they would be the protected, rather than the perpetrators. 

But _this_ world is not a fair one, and a monster made by man is still a monster. Perhaps Shouta is playing into his own role in society. Perhaps he’s part of the problem. But the alternative is watching death occur before his eyes, and then turning away to enjoy his ignorance. He thinks that would be worse.

Shouta is an underground hero _by choice,_ as he often has to justify, to the well-intentioned, but oftentimes misplaced concern of his friends. His quirk isn’t exactly suited for daytime heroism. Erasure works best when he can get the drop on his opponents, and for that he prefers anonymity and a low enough level of light to obscure his presence. He doesn’t have the temperament for the limelight, nor the patience for the resultant media circus. It’s no secret that, after pro heroics, journalism has one of the highest fatality rates of any given career. Most of those casualties are kids, fresh out of university and high on the immortality of youth. Life’s still a game at that age, and it only takes the one civilian, running towards a fight instead of away like they should be, before there’s another dead body; another tragedy.

There are enough horrors in the world without throwing more fuel to the flames. Shouta considers the spectacle made of villain fights to be something akin to gasoline.

The _shadows_ are a nasty place. He hides there, a hero undercover, watching as lives are thrown away, as though the very concept of life itself, the concept that life is a _right,_ is meaningless. The darkness entrenched within society is not always visible in the light of day. Most heroes live their lives unaware, or at the very least, wilfully ignorant. They don’t see what Shouta sees. They don’t see the fear etched onto a child’s face, unable to believe that someone has come to save them, because they’ve been taught _not to trust._ They don’t see the cigarette burns, the tears tracking down their pale, scarred cheeks, the _pain._

_Shouta knew a child like that, once._

The hospital lights are dimmer than the usual overwhelming brightness and the squeaky linoleum tiles are coloured. Glancing at little Edward Elric, curled under those scratchy, starched sheets, tiny and afraid and so goddamn _young,_ he hates the horrors that brought them here. The horrors today, and those of six years ago. This boy is far younger than the broken kid Shouta had known-- had known when he was barely an adult himself, and isn’t _that_ a trip-- but that hardly matters. Children are children. They’re innocent and vulnerable, and this is a world that rips the vulnerable to pieces.

He leaves Hizashi with the kid. He’s a comforting presence; a skill Shouta has had to learn, though he still falls short of his husband’s natural talent. 

He makes his way through the corridors, retracing the steps they’d taken to the children’s ward. The walls become whiter and the lights horribly bright as he walks. The recovery ward isn’t far, and he slows as he reaches the room he’s looking for, reaching out a hand and knocking sharply on the door.

A hoarse, familiar voice invites him in.

Shouta turns the handle, pushing his way into the room with maybe a little more force than is strictly necessary. A young man rests against the pillowed headboard of a hospital bed, legs splayed out on top of stiff, unused sheets. His hair is matted with what Shouta thinks is dried blood, and there’s a distinct burnt aroma that makes him recall the time Hizashi accidentally set fire to his shirtsleeve. The man’s eyes are underscored by dark half-circles that only accentuate the exhaustion apparent in his slumped shoulders and rasping breaths. There's a small, metallic figurine set down on the mattress beside him, which Shouta mentally files away as _strange, but not the most pressing thing right now._

“You look terrible,” he blurts, before he can even think about stopping himself. 

Roy Mustang blinks at him for a moment, the corner of his mouth tilting in amusement, “That’s nice.”

“I mean it,” Shouta lopes over, dragging a chair to the side of the bed and slumping down in it. He narrows his eyes, staring at the younger man. There are scorch marks along his pale forearms, and it takes Shouta back to another place-- to another _time,_ when the burns were small and circular, and the man-- _kid,_ all those years ago-- impossibly thin. “What happened?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Not until the end, and then they were carting you off.”

Roy grimaces, and Shouta can see how his fists clench, nails digging into his palms, “There were two victims. A boy and his father, and I couldn’t-- they were in such bad shape I didn’t think there was a chance of backup getting there on time,” his face darkens, then, his eyes flickering with anger as he softly states, “They-- they were the only occupants, and Shouta, that man was drunk. I’m almost certain of it.”

A memory, the bruised, fearful face of a little boy, is brought abruptly to the forefront of his mind, and Shouta wonders if rage is catching.

“He was,” he can’t quite keep the sourness from his tone as he reclines in his chair, finding little support in the cheap plastic frame. “The child’s brother admitted that much,” he hesitates. He’s here for a reason, and it’s not to discuss that particular tragedy, however much he might _want_ to. “The doctor told me you were brought in for _smoke inhalation,_ Roy. How the hell did that happen to _you?”_

His friend winces.

A sense of foreboding begins to creep up on Shouta, "What did you do?"

“I had to,” Roy shakes his head, a trembling hand rising to cover his face as he speaks. “I couldn’t let them suffocate. But I was trying to pull oxygen away from the fire, and the flames wanted it just as badly as I did, and I guess--” he cuts himself off, huffing a humourless laugh. “Well I wasn’t going to let the kid breathe in the smoke, and the fire was fucking _eating_ everything. There was nothing else I could do.”

_There’s always something,_ the teacher in Shouta wants to lecture. _There’s always something you can do besides hurting yourself._

But there’s a time and a place for that conversation, and it _isn’t_ today, under the harsh blare of hospital lights. Shouta imagines smoke in his eyes, and flames at his back, standing between death and those fragile lives, and he _understands._

Still. _Smoke inhalation._ How _desperate_ had the situation _become?_

And for someone with an _oxygen manipulation quirk_ to--

_Wait._

“You used the air from your own lungs,” he croaks, unable to keep emotion from bleeding into his tone, because that _isn’t okay._ It’s _reckless_ and _stupid,_ and--

He could’ve _died._

“At the end,” the words are spoken steadily, a hint of heated resolve buried within them. “For the kid.”

“Don’t do that again,” Shouta pleads; _unfairly,_ he already knows.

Roy’s gaze turns steely, “You know I can’t promise that.”

They stare at each other, a silent impasse, before the younger of the two grimaces, glancing away. His tone is gruff when he finally speaks, giving voice to a question Shouta has been dreading, “The boy. They won’t tell me anything. You said you spoke to a doctor, right? Did you find out what--”

“Yes,” Shouta interrupts quickly, “but Roy--”

“I want to know.”

Shouta swallows heavily, hating that he has to be the one to tell him-- that the man has to be told at _all,_ because this should never have happened. “Comatose. They say it’s unlikely he’ll recover.”

“That’s--” Roy’s breathing stutters, his shoulders visibly stiffening, before bowing as though under a great weight. Unfiltered horror plays across his face, and Shouta can see the very moment he shuts it down, burying the cacophony of emotion under a shroud of blank detachment.

“It isn’t your fault,” Shouta offers gently.

Roy freezes, and Shouta can’t help but feel like he’s fucked up somehow. “No, I--” he blinks, something imperceptible in his dark eyes, the mask flickering ever so slightly. _“God,_ Shou, it _is_. I-- I should’ve left the man, called for backup. I would’ve been faster, and that kid--”

“You saved his father’s _life,_ ” Shouta reaches to grasp his friend’s shoulder, and he _shouldn’t_ be shaking a hospital patient, but Roy’s breaths are coming in quick, harsh gasps, and he needs to bring him _back._ “He’s alive, you know. He’s going to be fine. You kept that child oxygenated, which is all the ambulance crew were able to do anyway. It’s all they’ve been able to do _here._ The kid was likely gone before you got there, and it’s not--” he swallows, catching his own, startled breath, “it’s not _hopeless,_ okay? He isn’t braindead. They’ve got him under observation, and they’re still doing tests, but they know what caused it now. It was _oxygen deprivation,_ Roy. If anything, your presence there is the reason he even _has_ any hope,” he pauses in his rigmarole, closing his eyes to dull the pounding in his head, “If you’d left the father, he’d have ended up like the boy-- or _worse._ You made the right call.”

He can feel the way Roy shifts under his grip, the way his shoulders finally relax. He can hear the trembling exhale and the soft curse he mutters, and when he opens his eyes he can see relief, amidst the grief and exhaustion of his friend’s countenance. 

Shouta understands. He can’t even count the number of times he’s needed to hear those words after a mission with a body count; needed to know that he’d done the right thing, that he’d been up against powerful enemies and impossible odds. 

He understands the injustice. A man who has clearly done nothing but bring harm to his children has been given a second chance at life, while his own son is fated to suffer. A life has been saved, but he can see the sorrow in his friend’s eyes, and he’s sure it’s reflected in his own. It _feels_ very much as though the life saved was the _wrong one,_ but--

Who are _they,_ to judge who _deserves_ to be saved? Life is a _right,_ and--

“You made the right call,” Shouta repeats, and his voice is steadier this time; surer. _Good._ “You did everything you could. Sometimes that’s not going to be enough. It’s not your fault when that happens.”

There’s a watery laugh, and he watches as Roy pulls away, swiping a fist under his eyes, before lifting his gaze to meet Shouta’s own, “Once a teacher always a teacher, huh Shou?”

“I was never _your_ teacher.”

“But you still taught me things,” he cracks a grin then, and Shouta blames Hizashi _entirely_ when he says, “It’s good to know you haven’t lost your penchant for melodrama.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

The laugh he receives in response is light, the smirk on Roy’s face tinged with sincerity, and Shouta revels in the momentary win. In some ways, it’s meaning reaches something beyond just a _smile,_ because Shouta remembers _everything._

He remembers who Roy Mustang used to be, remembers the day they met; Shouta was in his third year of Yuuei, and Roy in his first.

He’d struggled that year, hardly able to even look at the younger students; kids full of optimism and naive hope, because he'd see them and feel like crying, knowing that they were going to _die,_ grinning the way Oboro had been, smiling, wide and frightened, still _small--_

But the scrappy little winner of the first years’ sports festival had been so _different._ Shouta, along with everyone else in the stadium, had stared in shock as the young boy lifted a clenched hand, watching, waiting as each opponent quietly keeled over. 

He’d won, of course, with that terrifying display of power, but there had been no light in his eyes.

Shouta found him shivering by the side of the school’s running track three days later, bruised and blistered, covered in cigarette burns and flushed with obvious fever. His only friend, a bespectacled little kid from general education, had looked almost ready to bite Shouta when he’d tried to get closer.

Not once had Shouta looked at the younger boy and seen Oboro’s bright eyes staring back at him.

“Where’s he going to go?”

He startles, abruptly uprooted from his introspection. “What?”

Roy scoffs. “The _kid,_ ” he emphasises, gesturing aimlessly with one hand. “The one you brought in. He’ll be discharged soon, right? What’s going to happen to him? You--” his voice breaks a little. “They won’t give him back to that deadbeat will they?”

“Of course not,” Shouta replies. “That’s not how it works. He’ll be arrested for neglect, at the very _least--”_

“It’s not how it _should_ work,” Roy corrects, face dissolving into a scowl. “You know as well as I do that there are kids who fall through the cracks.”

“We won’t let that happen,” this, at least, Shouta can assure. “Tsukauchi managed to get a hold of their case file. The kids have an uncle; their father’s brother apparently. Estranged, but he’s a doctor, so he’s likely a semi-decent person. Tsukauchi is running the background check now. If it comes back clean and he agrees to sign the custody papers, that boy won’t spend even a single night in foster care.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Roy presses, his dark eyes glittering with an emotion that Shouta can’t quite place. “If he refuses?”

“Hizashi and I still have our licenses. We’ll take the child until we can find him a more long term placement. It shouldn’t take long.”

“A _foster family_ ,” Roy spits, like a curse. 

“It’ll be safe,” Shouta tries. “We’ll vet the family ourselves. You know we’ve never done anything less.”

Roy shakes his head stiffly, “That’s just the thing, it isn’t safe. It _can’t_ be safe. You don’t--” he grimaces, knuckles white around the bedding clenched in his fists. “You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. Sometimes it’s impossible to know. People like that, they’re _good_ at lying, and they’re good at making the kids lie too. Some of the _children_ don’t even know they’re treated badly--” his voice begins to shake and he cuts himself off hastily, gaze lifting to meet Shouta’s own.

Shouta senses a minefield. “What happened to you was wrong,” he ventures, hesitantly, “but that doesn’t mean the boy will suffer the same way. You don’t need to--”

“This isn’t about _me,_ ” Roy’s expression rapidly darkens.

“You’re letting past experience cloud your judgement.”

“And _you_ are allowing ignorance to cloud _yours._ ”

Shouta clamps his jaw shut, turning away in an effort to suppress his frustration. Quarrelling won't help anyone, least of all the kid. It’s obvious to him that Roy is allowing his emotions to dictate his reasoning, but--

It’s not as though he’s necessarily _wrong,_ either. There’s just nothing they can do about it. 

He exhales slowly, weariness sinking deep into his bones as he raises his eyes to meet his friend’s dark gaze. “What do you suggest?”

Because it’s easy enough to claim injustice, but it’s so much harder to actually _do_ anything about it. It’s uncharacteristic of the younger man to fall into this trap, because Roy has always been the sort to _actually think things through_ instead of rushing blindly into situations, which is as invaluable as it is rare when it comes to hero work, and has the added effect of making Dante one of the few pro heroes Shouta actually trusts in the field.

“If his uncle refuses to sign, I’ll take the kid.”

The words are laced with determination, and there’s a spark in the hero’s eyes that _dares_ criticism. It’s spoken quickly; a prepared response, and Shouta wonders if the man has been leading up to this all along.

It wouldn’t surprise him. 

But he _trusts_ Roy to make the right call; has done so time and time again, under the worst of circumstances.

It’s this, more than anything else, that has him sitting straight in his chair, eyes focused and judgement cast aside. Tsukauchi wants him back at the station soon, but there’s time enough for _this._

He pays no mind to the toy-like figurine, now clasped disturbingly between the young man’s pale fingers; ignores the image of the broken ten year old, held by those hands in much the same way. It doesn’t really _matter,_ in the end, because--

“Convince me that this is a good idea, and I’ll help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tsukauchi has stumbled upon a mystery...
> 
> Mustang is probably the closest thing Aizawa has to a bratty little brother.


	9. Hohenheim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, quick warning, there's someone throwing up in this chapter. It's not particularly graphic (I think) but the scene begins with 'The breath' and ends before 'There’s a', if you want to skip it.

Ed is shaken gently from his slumber, his face pressed against Present Mic’s leather jacket for what he’s sure is the second time that night.

“Hey there,” the man smiles down at him, green eyes leaflike and soft as he helps lever Ed upright. “You with us, bud?”

Ed bobs his head blearily, automatically accepting the oat bar and bottle of water pressed into his hands as he glances around the room. There’s still only the three of them by Al’s bedside, so Ed’s at a loss as to where the food and drink could have come from.

“One of the nurses stopped by earlier,” Present Mic gives the explanation unbidden. “She thought you might be getting hungry. We’ve been here a while, kiddo.”

It’s still mostly dark out, but a glance out the window reveals the early stages of nautical twilight; a soft almost-glow blanketing the indigo sky. It must be close to morning. Ed had never asked how long he’d been asleep before Present Mic had taken him here, but it must have been at least a few hours. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept in the cramped plastic chair, curled against the hero’s side, but it's likely a few hours more.

It’s been nearly a full night, and Al hasn’t woken up.

They’d told him he wouldn’t tonight-- that it wouldn’t be soon and it might be never. It’s not that Ed hadn’t believed them, because he had; it just hadn’t seemed real, not completely anyway. Now though, taking in his little brother’s still form, he feels a familiar, anxious nausea bubbling in his stomach. Al hasn’t moved; he hasn’t so much as twitched since Ed has been here. 

_He might not wake up._

Why is it, then, that Ed feels as though _he’s_ the one waking from a horrific nightmare, only to be thrust into the middle of another? He’s been caught between reality and some semi-dreamlike state. Nothing is real--

_He doesn’t want it to be real._

“You should eat,” Present Mic urges, nudging his arm gently when he doesn’t respond right away.

He’s honestly still in a daze, half-asleep and half in shock, but he obediently unwraps the bar. It’s the strangest thing, to be able to eat without first making sure there’s enough food on Al’s plate. He instinctively breaks the snack in half, but the absence of his little brother’s hungry eyes stops him just short of reaching out to hand it over. His eyes wander to the bags of nutrients hanging from the I.V. stand, connected to Al’s veins by thin tubes. Is it enough? It doesn’t look like it’ll be enough, not for a growing boy. Ed’s older, he can surely spare a little, _just in case._

He pushes himself to his feet, gingerly avoiding the wires and machines pumping his brother’s heart and helping him draw breath, tiptoeing closer until he’s within reach of the little table half a foot from the headboard. There’s a tissue box already situated on top of it, as well as a lampstand, so he pulls a tissue and wraps up one of the halves carefully, placing it within reach of the bed. Something inside him settles, seeing it there. It’s Al’s now. Maybe it isn’t enough, but he can at least give his little brother this. 

There’s a shuffling sound, and soft footsteps before a weight lands on his shoulder, “Watcha doing, little listener?”

“He’ll be hungry,” Ed says, stomping down hard on the part of himself that claims _denial._ “When he wakes up, or-- or he might be afraid, and he’ll know this was from me.”

The hand on his shoulder tugs, pulling him away from the bed, before there’s another weight on his other shoulder and he’s turning not quite of his own accord. “You here with me, bud?” Present Mic drops into a half crouch, stooping his head a little to look Ed in the eye, concern visible on his expressive face.

The words are strange to Ed, the meaning of them not completely clear, but he answers anyway, stuttering hesitantly, “I’m-- I’m here.”

_(I am here,_ the number one hero roars, voice tinny over the half-dead speakers. Ed sighs fondly as he hears Al squeal with joy.)

Present Mic sighs a little in relief, ushering Ed back to his chair before settling into his own, “Alright, kiddo.”

There’s a new tightness to his eyes, even as he smiles and squeezes Ed’s arm gently. Ed isn’t completely sure what he did to cause that, but his stomach churns with guilt, and he can’t help but hope desperately that the hero doesn’t cry again. It would be like making Al cry, and he can’t let that happen.

Maybe it shows on his face, because there’s a soft snort from across the room and the muttered words, “Don’t look like that, kid. Mic’s just worried about you.”

Dante’s dark eyes are narrowed when Ed glances up, a frown heavy on his features. It makes him look much older, almost world-weary, and for a moment Ed sees a flash of his father in that gaze, though the two men look nothing alike. _Worried._ Daddy was worried; he was always worried, always scared that something awful would happen; fearful of every dark alley, every street corner. Dante has a similar look now, and there are traces of it in Present Mic’s smiling visage. 

The sight is uncomfortable, but at least Ed can put a name to what he’s done, “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

He’s trying to make it better, but it’s absolutely _not working._ The indent between Dante’s eyebrows deepens, and Present Mic’s smile wobbles, becoming strained, “You have nothing to be sorry for, little listener.”

They’re leaving him utterly wrong-footed at every opportunity. Ed is supposed to apologise for things that are his fault. That’s what he’s always taught Al, and he knows it’s right. He’s supposed to apologise when he upsets someone, and especially when he upsets an adult. When Daddy gets upset, an apology can mean the difference between drunken rage, and a night of peace and quiet and _sanity._

“Okay,” Ed suspects that giving voice to his confusion will mean a _discussion,_ and he doesn’t really want another one; not about this. He’s feeling very slightly sick, unease bubbling in his gut. He doesn’t understand, and that’s probably what’s so wrong about this. He _should_ understand, but he doesn’t; the same way Al doesn’t understand Daddy’s sickness, because Ed hasn’t ever explained it to him.

Nobody ever explains things to Ed; or at least, they hadn’t, until tonight, because it feels like, for the past few hours, Ed has been receiving nothing _but_ explanations. 

“Try to eat,” Present Mic nudges the hand still holding the second half of the oat bar. “Please, kiddo.”

The change in subject is jarring enough that it’s probably purposeful, but Ed is grateful all the same. He’s not really hungry but he still tries, nibbling on the corner of the bar. There are pieces of dried strawberry mixed through it and the oats are dry. He only manages a few bites before he’s having to chase them down with the water the nurse left for him. The liquid soothes his sore throat, and the oats settle in his stomach, lessening the nausea enough that Ed can finish the rest of his half.

“Well done,” Present Mic grins at him, the brightness returning as he glances down at the empty wrapper in Ed’s grasp. “You did good, kid.”

It’s a silly thing to be praised over, but Ed still feels warmth bloom within his chest at the approval. It’s nice, if a little foreign, because he doesn’t think there’s anyone else who’s ever said that to him before. Perhaps Mummy did, but he can’t remember much from that time, so he can’t be sure. He’s _probably_ wrong, because there were likely teachers, and maybe Miss Maria, but he doesn’t _know,_ and the unfamiliarity stings, just a little.

They’re both distracted when Present Mic’s phone pings quietly, the man pulling it from his pocket and pressing a button that causes it to light up with a soft blue glow. 

Ed watches in interest. Daddy has a phone, but his is much older, and very cracked. Neither Ed or Al have one, because Daddy can’t afford to buy another, let alone two more. The model Present Mic has is sleek, and larger than any other Ed has seen before. It looks expensive, and he wonders how many meals it’s worth, and then realises that it’s probably too many to count. 

Present Mic doesn’t seem to like what he sees, his mouth twisting slightly as he types in what has to be a passcode. His brow furrows as he reads, glancing furtively towards Ed and then back down at the screen. He types some more, before switching the phone off and slipping it back into his pocket, glancing up and meeting Dante’s eyes, a silent conversation taking place between the two of them. The expression on his face is uncomfortable; somewhat reminiscent of the look he’d worn earlier that night, when Ed had first awoken, begging the man to tell him what had happened to his little brother. 

It leaves Ed with an odd uneasiness, his stomach turning over itself in knots. It’s a familiar enough feeling now that the resultant nausea doesn’t leave him gagging, but it’s still close, and he considers himself lucky that he isn’t throwing up the same food he’d been praised for keeping down. 

“Little listener,” Present Mic turns towards him, scraping his chair across the floor until he’s half facing Ed. His eyes are serious, and his voice is lower than before as he speaks. “There’s something I have to tell you. You don’t need to worry; it just might be a little surprising to hear. Are you going to be alright with that? Because I can tell Shouta to stall them if you’re not up to it right now.”

There’s a lot there. Ed can tell by the way he phrased it that Present Mic is trying very hard not to scare him, but he doesn’t know if that means it genuinely isn’t scary, or he’s trying to hide the fact that it is. Either way, he'll have to be told sooner or later, and the uncertainty right now is biting at him.

“It’s alright,” Ed says carefully. “I think I’d like to know.”

Present Mic reaches forward to squeeze one of Ed’s hands, “Brave boy,” he murmurs, verdant eyes softening with clear sympathy. “Eraser’s been digging into your family records,” he hesitates briefly, as though searching for the right words. “We’ve been looking for a way to keep you and your brother out of foster care, honestly.”

And _oh._ That’s-- 

“Thank you,” Ed whispers hoarsely, because even if they haven’t managed to find anything, it’s still more than he’d hoped for, still so much more than he’d resigned himself to getting.

“No problem, kiddo,” Present Mic’s voice is subdued, almost, and Ed gets the strangest impression that even if it _were_ a problem, the man wouldn’t mind all that much. He seems to brace himself, resting his elbows on his knees and taking a deep breath, almost as though he wants Ed to emulate him in some sort of way. “We had a detective go through your case file. He found that your father has a younger brother. The brother, your uncle, confirmed that you likely won’t have been told about him and has expressed an interest in taking you both in.”

The breath Ed sucks in is shallow and quick, sharp enough to get lodged in his throat, and he explodes into a violent coughing fit, his lungs protesting the smog he’d breathed in, full hours after they’d left the scene of the fire. He heaves, his stomach flipping, and he claps a hand over his mouth, his eyes clenching shut as he gags.

“Kid,” there are cool fingers against his forehead, brushing his fringe away from his brow, and a plastic bin is pressed into his lap. “Roy, grab that bottle, will you?”

Ed chokes, moving his hand to clutch at the bin as watery bile spills from his lips. He doesn’t even throw up the food he’d eaten, the strange rolling nausea coming to a tentative halt almost as abruptly as it had taken him over. He spits, embarrassed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, the words raspy and gross. “I’m--”

“Hush,” someone begins mopping at his face with a tissue, and Ed wonders whether the hands match the voice; if Present Mic, the popular radio show host and pro hero, is really wiping bile from his chin. “There’s no need for that, kiddo, I should’ve been gentler. I was trying to channel Shouta; be all no-nonsense like he is, y’know? I forgot that he has a tendency to make kids cry. In fact, how about we blame him, yeah? This is _definitely_ all Eraser’s fault.”

There’s a snort from not too far away, and Ed peels his eyes open with reluctant curiosity. Present Mic has moved his chair, sitting directly in front of Ed, and when he glances around further he sees Dante leaning rather heavily against a nearby wall. 

The hero notices him staring and reaches over, handing Ed the same bottle of water he’d been given earlier, “Don’t chug it,” he advises, an almost stern note in his tone as he speaks. “Rinse your mouth out, and then little sips only, kid. We don’t want a repeat of that.”

Ed follows what is clearly more of an order than a request, rinsing his mouth and dutifully spitting into the bucket one more time. It’s taken from him, and Present Mic is given just enough time to drop in the used tissues before Dante deposits it in the far corner of the room, expression impassive. The man sits back in his seat, a pained grimace flitting across his face at the movement, and Ed is reminded that Dante was likely injured during the rescue too, as though the mint green hospital pyjamas hadn’t already been enough of a clue. 

“I’m sorry,” Ed says again. 

Present Mic shakes his head emphatically, “Nothing to be sorry for, little listener. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he sighs softly, the sound almost sorrowful as he rests a hand lightly on Ed’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have had to find out like that, kiddo. It’s understandable that you were a little shocked by it all.”

_A little shocked_ might be an understatement.

Daddy has a brother; one who’s willing to take them in. Why didn’t their father just _tell them?_

If Ed had known, he’d have snitched on Daddy in a heartbeat. They’d have gone to live with their uncle, when Daddy first went off the rails. They wouldn’t have been in that crummy apartment building when the fire broke out. Al wouldn’t be--

It’s _Daddy’s fault._ All this-- everything that’s _wrong_ right now is _his fault._

Ed feels like crying. He presses clenched fists against his eyes, as though he can hold back the tears through sheer force of will, “Is he coming here?” he whispers, swallowing a sob threatening to make its way out. “Our uncle, is he coming here?”

“He will be,” Present Mic confirms, quietly.

“I want to see him,” Ed’s voice cracks, salt water spilling over his lower lashes and down his cheeks. “Please, I want-- I want--”

He dissolves, choking on incomprehensible words. He’s pulled from the chair and gently crushed against a warm leather jacket.

“You’re okay,” Present Mic whispers, and maybe, _maybe._ “You’re going to be okay, kid.”

* * *

There’s a knock at the door before it opens. Four people file in, and it’s like the beginning of a bad joke. A hero, a social worker and a police officer walk into a hospital room, but the metaphor is abruptly halted with the fourth visitor. Directly following the officer is a tall, smartly dressed man with bright, golden eyes and long blond hair fastened into a low ponytail with a thick black band. The expression on his face is placid, if a little curious, but it shifts to something unreadable when his eyes land on Ed.

He looks like Daddy.

There are differences though, stark enough that Ed notices immediately. His hair is well-kept, and much tidier than Daddy’s has ever been, but it’s also paler, closer to white-blond than the yellow of his father’s locks. He’s noticeably younger looking, too, his skin smooth and blemish free, and there’s no trace of the haggard expression permanently etched onto his father’s face, a look that’s likely a side effect of the years of alcohol abuse. His jawline isn’t as chiselled, the shape bearing far more resemblance to Ed’s own, and he’s slimmer than Daddy too, from what Ed can see of him.

_This is Daddy’s younger brother. Daddy’s Al._

Eraserhead and the police officer move, both standing to the side, and Ed is left to flinch away from the potent gaze directed at him.

He’d _lied_ to her, after all. She probably _hates him._

There are _too many people._ The room is starting to feel cramped, and Ed is beginning to get the impression that they’re all waiting for him to say something; the silence thick and quickly becoming weighted as it drags on.

He presses closer to Present Mic, hiding his head in his shoulder and desperately willing his own body to stop trembling. He knows the man can feel the shudders running through him, and he’s beyond grateful when an arm curls around his back, rubbing steady circles between his shoulder blades.

“I think it might be getting a little crowded in here,” Present Mic states, and it sounds more like a suggestion than an opinion.

His social worker agrees immediately, “I think you might be right,” her voice rises in volume as she continues, “Perhaps, Detective, you could assist Eraserhead-san in escorting Dante-san back to his room?”

_That_ sounds less like a suggestion, and a lot more like an order. 

Ed glances up in time to see Dante grimacing, a look of exhaustion plain on his face as Eraserhead drags him to his feet, holding onto his upper arm with a vice-like grip. The officer takes Dante’s other side, a steady hand on the man’s shoulder, before they’re making their way out the door, the officer nudging it open with his foot in the process and allowing it to fall closed behind them with a soft thud.

It's kind of sad, because he's not sure he'll be able to see Dante again. He never even got the chance to say goodbye.

“Edward.”

He’s afraid to even look. Mrs Curtis doesn’t sound angry, but he knows that she _should be._ Ed’s been lying to her face for _years._

“Kiddo,” Mrs Curtis moves to stand in front of him, her hand reaching down to cup his face, thumb resting over the bruise marring his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Because nobody told _him_ about his uncle. Because he thought they were _alone,_ that Daddy was all they had left.

“I don’t know,” Ed drops his head, his stomach churning with a mixture of sick guilt and self-righteous anger. “I guess I would've if I'd wanted my little brother put into foster care.”

She sighs, sounding worn, and maybe a little disappointed too, “I could’ve helped you, kid.”

The problem with adults is that they often _think_ they’re helping, when they’re actually making the situation _ten times worse._

“Hey now!” Present Mic squeezes Ed’s shoulders reassuringly, his bright tone edged with an unusual sharpness. “I’m sure this little one was just doing what he thought was best for his brother, right bud?”

Ed nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. He’ll probably either mouth off or burst into tears. Or _maybe,_ it’ll be both.

“And I bet he didn’t even know he had an uncle until now, which must have been a nice surprise! But I reckon it would’ve been even better to have had that surprise a _little_ earlier,” Present Mic’s smile is all teeth as he pushes himself to his feet, allowing Ed to latch onto his sleeve as he does so and offering his other hand to the blond stranger, “Hey, man, the name’s Hizashi Yamada.”

The man reaches out to shake his hand firmly, “Doctor Iacov Hohenheim. It’s a pleasure, Yamada-san.” 

_Hohenheim._ Daddy’s surname is _Elric._

“This is Edward,” Present Mic says loudly, almost confrontationally, tugging Ed to his feet and tucking him against his side in the same, fluid motion. “Your nephew. Perhaps you'd like to say hello?”

The vast disparity between _this_ and Present Mic's earlier demeanour is bewildering; enough that Ed has probably missed something important, but the adults aren't giving him any clues, observing each other with a blank tolerance that has to be a façade. It's well-worn though, on both ends, and he can't figure out what just happened.

“I’m aware,” Iacov regards Ed impassively, before holding out a hand in much the same way Present Mic had done. “It’s lovely to meet you, Edward. I apologise for not introducing myself earlier, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I’m sure we’ll get along very well, in time.”

He’s a perfect stranger. They don’t even share the same _name,_ but he’s Ed’s only choice if he wants to protect Al.

It feels wrong, somehow.

He takes the hand anyway and fights the urge to throw up again, “Please take care of me, Iacov-san."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social skills *exist*
> 
> Present Mic: *has them*
> 
> Every other character: what the hell even is that?
> 
> \-------------------
> 
> and it's the end of the first arc! I'm excited, honestly, because it's at this point that the plot is really starting to unfold :-)


End file.
